


It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a fangirl in possession of feels, must be in want of Clexa prompts

by faithtastic



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: A lot of tongue, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabbles, F/F, Ficlets, Lexa's shoulder guard, Mile High Club, Modern AU, Open Coat Lexa, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompt Fic, Smut, Strap-Ons, Throne Sex, and smudged warpaint, because that’s how Clarke Griffin rolls, commander hot stuff, grumpy ball of rage Clarke Griffin, sex with feelings, steamy war table make out, the world needs more Open Coat Lexa, thirsty clarke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2018-08-10 04:18:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7830151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithtastic/pseuds/faithtastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of random ficlets and prompts originally posted on tumblr. And, yes, I did shamelessly borrow from Jane Austen for that title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ascention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clexa throne sexa.

Clarke lifts her hips and Lexa takes the hint, peels the pants and underwear down Clarke’s legs. Pulls her boots off. Tosses them aside. Coaxes Clarke’s leg up, up, until she drapes it over Lexa’s left shoulder, the one with the guard still attached. She’s shivery, body still trembling from the aftermath of her orgasm. Lexa dots kisses along pale skin, nibbling at the flesh, nosing at the join where thigh meets pelvis, heavy breath gusting over the soaked sparse hair of her cunt.

Clarke inhales sharply before Lexa’s lips even touch her, before Lexa even has a chance to drag her tongue up through the slick mess between her legs. She can’t. It’s too much. To have Lexa’s mouth directly on her so soon. Her fingers, still white-knuckled on the gnarled arms of the throne, lodge themselves in Lexa’s braids instead. They’re half-loosened, mussed, undoing the careful diligence of Lexa’s handmaidens. Clarke weaves one hand into those lovely curls and tugs until Lexa flows up her body. And, God, the stretch of her thigh braced against Lexa’s shoulder. The rough scrape of Lexa’s coat against the delicate skin of her inner thighs, her stomach. She’s spread wide open and wet and so, so ready for more.

Lexa steadies herself, a hand wrapped around each of Clarke’s knees. Allows herself to be drawn up into a kiss that’s full of the earthy tang of _Clarke_. It sits heavy on Lexa’s tongue as she licks into Clarke’s mouth. Clarke takes it willingly, greedily, a soft groan clogging the back of her throat. She traces the contours of Lexa’s face: the sharpness of jaw, the slope of cheekbone, curves her palm around the back of Lexa’s neck to keep her close, connected, present.

As they kiss Lexa’s fingers trail along the inside of Clarke’s thigh, stroking back and forth from knee to hip until Clarke is squirming in the throne. Restless. Impatient. She pulls her mouth away, snagging her teeth on the pillowy give of Lexa’s bottom lip. Levels Lexa with a look that has her swallowing visibly. This close Lexa’s eyes are startling, the mossy green of her irises eclipsed by the fathomless black of her pupils. Lids are heavy, gaze rooted upon Clarke’s mouth like it’s an oasis in an arid desert. It leaves Clarke breathless, beside herself. Provokes a spike of arousal so sharp, so visceral that it borders on agony.

“Fuck me, Lexa,” she whispers into that tiny humid space between their mouths, their lips brushing on every syllable. “Take me. I’m yours. Ple—”

The rest is lost against Lexa’s mouth, swallowed whole, and Clarke gasps her appreciation into the kiss. Once again when Lexa’s fingers skate across her skin to the top of her thigh only to dip between her legs. She feels the shudder that passes through Lexa at the wetness she finds there. She’s pretty sure there’s a puddle forming on the seat and Clarke’s just… so beyond caring about how they’re going to clean it up before Titus comes back. All she’s concerned with right now is the press of Lexa’s fingers, elegant and slender and perfect, as they glide in. Two. Knuckle-deep. Easy.

“Another,” Clarke rasps, unashamedly. Lexa shifts as she pulls out, only far enough to slide in a third finger. And Clarke rolls, rocks, bucks her hips up into the slow, steady pump of Lexa’s hand. It’s everything and not enough and, God, Lexa’s ruining her. Palm flat against her mound and heel skimming over the swollen nub of Clarke’s clit with every movement.

All the while Lexa doesn’t relinquish her command of Clarke’s lips. Her kisses run deep, heavy, and Clarke can’t get enough of the noises that leak from the seal of their mouths. Hitching breaths when Lexa’s fingers angle just so; a groan at the friction against the back of Clarke’s thigh where it chafes against the shoulder guard (which is probably going to leave a rash, but, fuck it); the soft, wet suction of their lips; the catch in Lexa’s throat as Clarke’s fingers tighten in her hair.

Perspiration dots Lexa’s temples now. She must be sweltering in that coat, the guard, the sash, but she doesn’t stop driving her fingers forward. Clarke’s own shirt sticks to her back, sweat pooling at the base of her spine. The throne’s actually really fucking uncomfortable. She wonders how Lexa manages to sit here for hours, poised and unmoving except for the occasional cross and uncross of her legs, holding audience with a perfectly smooth expression. Is it beneath Heda to sit on a goddamn cushion? (She can almost imagine the admonishment: “Soft furnishings are not the hallmark of a strong leader, Clarke.”)

But, fuck, _fuck_ , it’s worth every second of it even if her ass is numb.

She wrenches her mouth away, heaving to catch her breath as her hips surge and she clenches around Lexa’s fingers. She feels that tingle in her gut, coiling tight, as Lexa rubs at her, as a palm grinds ruthlessly against her clit. “Is this getting you off?” Clarke asks on a gasp. “Fucking me on your throne? Will you think about this the next time you’re—”

“Shof op, Klark,” Lexa snaps but there’s no malice in it. Her eyebrows are pinched, the kiss-swollen plushness of her lower lip caught between her teeth. The very picture of concentration as she works Clarke over.


	2. come fly with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Lexa and Clarke joining the mile high club while still being in their seats. Maybe putting a blanket over their laps or something?

“ _Clarke_ ,” Lexa says, little more than a shocked, soft hiss under her breath. "What are you doing?“ Her widened eyes dart around the dimmed cabin, latching onto the flight attendant who’s gradually working her way down the aisle, a solicitous smile fixed on her face as she checks on the passengers seated just five rows away.

Clarke’s hand moves under the cover of the shared blanket that’s draped over their laps. “Taking your mind off the turbulence,” she says calmly. Almost matter of fact. As if inappropriate touching on a plane at 38,000 feet, with half-snoozing people all around, is no big deal.

Lexa tenses, stomach dropping, and she isn’t sure whether it’s the last pocket of air that sent the plane lurching or whether it’s the roving hand slipping between her thighs that causes the sensation. A purposeful caress down the seam of her wool pants has her swallowing down a gasp, blinking for the span of a few rapid heartbeats. The fabric’s so thin she feels the touch _everywhere_ ; the warmth of Clarke’s fingers; the shape of them, shorter and thicker than her own.

“Is it working?” Clarke asks, a hint of teasing in her voice.

She circles, slow, merciless, rubbing at the spot where Lexa’s clit pulses beneath two layers of clothing. Lexa wonders if Clarke can feel the damp heat that’s already collecting there and making her underwear uncomfortably clingy. Clarke dips lower, adds more pressure, and Lexa isn’t able to tamp down on the noise that escapes from her tightly pursed lips. It makes Clarke look at her directly for the first time since her palm found its way onto Lexa’s leg a few minutes ago. Even in the semi-darkness those eyes draw Lexa in, helplessly.

Without conscious thought Lexa shifts, knees falling further apart despite the limited space. Not for the first time she wishes she’d sprung for the extra leg room. But she wasn’t to know this would happen. Then again, this is Clarke.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” Clarke says, a smug little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She draws her bottom lip between her teeth as her gaze flits over Lexa’s face. She watches, rapt, for every minuscule flicker of response as she reaches for the button at the waistband of Lexa’s pants. Plucks at the zip and drags it down so slowly that Lexa feels like she might die if Clarke follows through on this and she might die if Clarke doesn’t.

“Clarke,” Lexa tries again. It comes out as a soft, airy gasp, threaded through with an undercurrent of need.

“Do you think you can keep quiet?” Clarke’s eyes, dark and gleaming under the low lighting, are stuck on Lexa’s mouth.

The flight attendant stoops to talk to an elderly couple now, only two rows in front. Lexa hears them ask for an extra pillow.

A blonde brow flexes. “Well?”

Lexa sucks in an unsteady breath, one that matches the erratic thump of her heart. Nods her consent. Clarke smiles, a flash of white in the gloom, and Lexa nearly lets out a sigh of relief when Clarke’s palm slips under the band of her underwear. Almost groans when short nails rake through her pubic hair. Again, when two fingers glide into the wetness pooling between her legs, just barely grazing over her clit.

This time it’s Clarke who makes a sound. Soft. Choked. Loud enough that it has the tips of Lexa’s ears, the apples of her cheeks turning pink. Lexa glances up in time to see the flight attendant reach their row. She startles slightly and tries to cover it with a cough.

“Is there anything I can get for you, ladies?”

“No, thank you. We’re good,” Clarke says, offering the woman her most charming smile. Her fingers are still moving, parting, rolling the slick around Lexa’s clit.

It takes everything Lexa has not to let her eyes roll back. Lips pressed together, jaw clenched, she pretends to find the tiny airplane graphic on the screen in front of her endlessly fascinating. She feels the woman’s gaze resting on her face and for a single horrified moment Lexa thinks she can smell the scent of her arousal, despite the blanket hiding their indiscretion.

Perhaps it’s Lexa’s pinched expression, the rigid set of her shoulders as she clutches the armrest in a death grip that gives the flight attendant pause. “Ma'am? Are you all right? You look a little flushed.”

“She’s fine,” Clarke assures. Still her hand doesn’t cease it’s stealthy movement between Lexa’s thighs. The very tip of one finger edges inside Lexa. She isn’t able to control the way her hips jerk up slightly. Clarke adopts a conspiratorial tone. “Nervous flyer. Don’t worry, I’ll look after her.”

The flight attendant turns a knowing smile on Clarke. Taps the side of her nose and winks.

It isn’t until the woman’s out of earshot that Lexa lets out a quiet, shuddery breath. Squeezes her eyes shut. Wets her lips before she mutters, “Jesus, Clarke. She could’ve caught us.”

“But she didn’t.” Clarke leans closer, props her chin on Lexa’s shoulder. She feels the hot gust of Clarke’s breath on her neck. When Clarke speaks again her voice is so low and husky that it sends a shiver crawling down Lexa’s spine. “Let me do this for you. Because the next time you’re on a flight all you’re gonna think about is this, me fucking you until you’re nice and relaxed and ready for a nap, and you’ll forget to be scared. Okay, babe?”

Lexa cranes her neck to stare at Clarke for a few breathless seconds. God, she really wants to kiss Clarke now because, perversely, it’s kind of the sweetest thing she’s ever heard.

Her throat bobs. She gives a shallow nod. “Okay.”

She slumps a little further down in her reclined seat, parts her legs a little wider. And Clarke’s right, Lexa doesn’t think about the fact they’re basically hurtling through the sky in an oversized tin can for at least the next five minutes.


	3. unfold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The gifset of Lexa crossing her arms behind her back gave me the idea that whenever she does that, it probably sends Clarke straight into thirst mode. Pair that with Top!/Domme! Clarke and I can think of multiple instances where Lexa crossing her arms behind her back turns into a great time.
> 
> *
> 
> So, um, this went in a sliiightly different direction to the prompt…
> 
> In summary: Clexa didn’t do the do in 307 because Clarke decided to stay in Polis, Titus still tried to assassinate Clarke, nobody died. Boom, 2000 words later! Also, excuse my butchery of Trigedasleng (I can’t even say it, much less write it in a grammatically correct fashion).

“Teik em don get em klin, ste put daunen na kom au son daun neson,” Lexa says as she uncrosses her legs and rises from the throne. _Let it be known, the execution will happen at sundown tomorrow_.

Clarke observes from her place beside the other ambassadors, eyes never straying far from Lexa. She notices the microscopic tells that leak through Lexa’s controlled façade: the tense set of that sculpted jaw, the tight press of lips. How Lexa shifts into what Clarke’s come to think of as the ultimate Heda stance, feet planted shoulders-width apart, arms folded behind her back.

“Teik em we.“

There’s no commotion, not even a murmur of surprise from the assembled witnesses. Titus accepts the judgement without struggle; instead there’s a serene kind of resignation in his expression as he’s escorted from the throne room in shackles.

The silence becomes oppressive. The ambassadors, the gathered attendants, the guards, all keep their heads lowered to avoid Lexa’s stare as it swings around the room. She’s purposefully seeking out opposition to her pronouncement. As if anyone would. The recent fate of the Azgeda ambassador is deterrent enough. Even without the war paint Lexa radiates authority and menace. Her quiet fury is palpable, simmering below the surface, and Clarke sort of hates that she finds it so damn compelling.

(Every time Lexa adopts that pose—during strategy meetings with her advisors, addressing the council of clan representatives, while holding audience with village elders, or conversing with her subjects around the city—Clarke feels this tiny, hot ball of tension gathering in the pit of her stomach. There’s something about the lines of Lexa’s body, the set of her shoulders, long, gloved fingers clutching the sleeves of her coat, that leaves Clarke restless and prowling her bedroom when she’s alone, all thoughts stuck on _Lexa, Lexa, Lexa_.

For two weeks she’s ruthlessly tried to ignore it, did everything she could to stifle that inconvenient little spark of attraction. Because it _is_ attraction; she isn’t lacking the self-awareness to recognise this wriggling feeling for what it is. It’s just… she was—is?—still _so_ fucking mad at Lexa. But the longer she stays in Polis, the more time she spends in Lexa’s company, the more that residual anger seems to elude her. It’s being supplanted by something else; something small and tentative. It flares in her chest whenever she catches Lexa’s eyes.)

After a moment Lexa turns her back to the room, tossing a “gon we” over her shoulder. Clarke assumes the order includes her too until she hears a quieter, clipped, “Nou yu, Klark kom Skaikru.“

One by one the others exit in procession until it’s only Clarke and Lexa in the otherwise empty chamber. Lexa remains stock-still and, unseen, Clarke’s eyes roam. She drinks in Lexa’s stiff figure, gaze settling on the arms still folded behind Lexa’s back. Fixates on the curl of Lexa’s fingers around her elbows. Can’t help but recall how those same fingers had glided over her jaw and slipped into her hair before they kissed, all those months ago. To her chagrin, she finds herself thinking about that kiss more than anything else of late. Replaying it in her head in the dark while she lies in an enormous bed unable to sleep, or in council meetings when the minutiae of discussions become too dull, the arguments too petty. Conjuring the memory of Lexa’s soft mouth against her own until the guilt takes over and she remembers she’s supposed to resent this girl.

“You consider my ruling harsh,” Lexa says without preamble and it shakes Clarke out of her reverie. It’s a statement of fact, not a question.

This is one of those ‘teaching moments’ where Clarke feels like Lexa is assessing her. Whatever response she gives might result in a lecture or one of those rare, subtle smiles of approval. Clarke’s come to anticipate the latter since they’ve reached this cautious détente.

“Yes, I do.“

Lexa turns her head. Stares. Livid once more. “Titus made an attempt on your life.” Every word is enunciated with harsh precision.

“He failed.“

“Given the chance you think he won’t try again?” Lexa spits as she pivots around to face Clarke finally. She takes a measured breath, eyes closing for a second, and some of the pinched austerity returns to her expression. “I swore to defend you as I would myself, Clarke. An attack on you is an attack on me. What message does it send if I let an assassination attempt on an ambassador within my coalition go unpunished? By my most trusted counsel, no less?“

Clarke approaches the throne slowly, her eyes remaining on Lexa’s. “It shows that you’re merciful. And I’m not saying Titus shouldn’t be punished.” She stops before the dais, standing directly in front of the Commander. “You’ve shown leniency before. I held a knife to your throat, remember?"

Something shifts in Lexa’s gaze, softens. "That’s different."

"Why? Because you have feelings for me?”

The accusation hangs between them. An unreadable look flashes across Lexa’s face before she contains herself. She says nothing as her green eyes bore into Clarke’s. For her part, Clarke feels no compulsion to take the words back or apologise. Something within her settles, the tightness below her diaphragm easing, as she allows herself to acknowledge the truth of it, untainted by memories of betrayal.

"Once you told me that love is weakness. After Mount Weather I was inclined to agree.” The mention of that place leaves a bitter taste in Clarke’s mouth but she forges on. “But since I’ve been in Polis I’ve seen the love you have for your people, the love they have for you. And it isn’t weakness; it’s strength. Titus loves you so much he was willing to sacrifice his life and mine to do what he thought was best for you. Same as Gustus. Same as Anya.“

She doesn’t add Costia’s name to the list. Despite how close she and Lexa have grown and the confidences Lexa has shared (given freely, with no expectation of anything in return), Clarke still knows scant details beyond _she was mine_ and the pieces she’s managed to stitch together surrounding the circumstances of Costia’s death. It’s the one topic that seems impossible to broach, no matter how curious Clarke is.

"If you care enough to excuse me can’t you extend the same compassion to Titus? He was your teacher, right? He practically raised you. I see how proud he is of everything you’ve achieved, Lexa."

"You don’t understand,” Lexa says, glancing away in exasperation. When she returns her gaze to Clarke, she’s only marginally calmer. A muscle ticks in her jaw. “Making a move against you while you’re under my protection was tantamount to an act of treason and the penalty for that is death. There can be no exceptions."

"What happened to ‘violence must not answer violence’?"

"I won’t debate this with you, Clarke. As the slighted party you’re required to exact punishment, as is our way, as it has always been. Tomorrow justice will be served."

Clarke folds her arms. She gives a simple, emphatic "no."

Lexa moves, descending from the raised platform and forcing Clarke back a step. She’s so close that the buckles of Lexa’s coat, the drape of her sash brush against Clarke’s jacket. The proximity affects Clarke more than she lets on but she lifts her chin, defiant in the face of this intimidation tactic.

"My duty is to uphold the laws of these lands. When you bowed before me you took an oath to submit to my absolute authority,” Lexa says, voice low. With every word, her warm breath gusts across Clarke’s face. "Do you dare to defy me, Ambassador?"

For a long, charged moment they stare at each other, both refusing to compromise. "I won’t do it, _Heda_.” The title is leaden with sarcasm and Clarke sees the way it makes Lexa bristle slightly. She also sees the way Lexa’s eyes dip down to her mouth. It shakes her resolve, makes something stir low and warm between her legs.

“As you wish.” Lexa doesn’t take her eyes away. She seems even closer than before and Clarke really can’t deal with it. Lexa’s scent—metal and leather and, beneath that, something musky and spicy—invades her senses. She feels dazed, unable to think beyond the nearness of Lexa’s parted lips. "Titus will remain a prisoner until you summon the courage to do what must be done."

It takes her a second to process what Lexa’s saying. She shakes her head slightly, takes a step back so she can just _breathe_ for a second without Lexa’s presence crowding her. "Then you’ll be waiting a long time,” Clarke snaps but it lacks the bite she intends. It comes out traitorously husky instead.

She doesn’t wait for Lexa’s response, spinning on her heel and striding towards the door because she needs to get the hell out of here right now before she does something impulsive.

“Clarke."

It’s the weariness in Lexa’s voice, bleached of all anger and frustration, that brings Clarke to a halt. When she turns back Lexa is staring at a spot on the floor, her shoulders losing the tiniest bit of their perfect posture. All of a sudden Lexa appears to shrink under the mantle of her position. In this instant she’s just a young woman carrying an incredible burden alone and Clarke can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy.

"You can’t convince me that killing Titus is the right thing to do."

A thick silence blankets the room but eventually Lexa gives a shallow nod. She presses her lips together, visibly swallows. "He left me no choice."

Clarke doesn’t question her own instincts, she just walks over and places her hand on Lexa’s upper arm. She doesn’t think about it when she tugs lightly, doesn’t second guess the urge to put her arm around Lexa’s shoulder to draw her against her body. It’s a minute, maybe two, before she becomes aware of Lexa’s arms unfolding, the hesitant touch on her waist, of Lexa’s fingers pressing into her side.

It feels like progress, another small but significant milestone.

"If our laws give me the power to claim a life as retribution then shouldn’t they also allow me the choice to spare one? You already set a precedent with Emerson,” Clarke reasons, ignoring the way Lexa stiffens. She keeps her arm around Lexa, preventing retreat. “If I reject vengeance doesn’t it prove to Titus and any other detractors that my goals are truly aligned with yours?"

A sigh next to her ear makes Clarke shiver, despite the heat of Lexa’s body pressing against her own. Lexa’s so _warm_ and her hair smells incredible; Clarke has to restrain herself from pressing her nose into Lexa’s braids.

"I want peace between us,” Clarke says and she’s aware of the double meaning inherent in her words. It isn’t only _for my people_. She can’t cling to excuses now, to try to deny the depth of the complicated emotions that Lexa stirs within her. Clarke’s hurting—she doesn’t know if the pain will ever stop—but it hurts more to keep pushing Lexa away when she wants so much to have her near.

They pull apart gradually but remain in one another’s space. Clarke’s arm is still slung around Lexa’s shoulder and she isn’t inclined to let go just yet. Neither does Lexa seem to want to relinquish her grip on Clarke’s waist. If anything, her fingers tighten, bunching the fabric of Clarke’s shirt.

Everything about this fills Clarke with silent trepidation but the fact that Lexa looks equally overcome helps allay the doubts that linger. The way Lexa’s staring at her mouth again does nothing to settle the jangling of her nerves. Lexa’s eyes are dark, hooded, _thirsty_ , but she makes no attempt to eliminate the short distance between them. She’s waiting for Clarke to take that leap, as always, never pushing for more than Clarke’s willing to give.

The realisation makes Clarke suck in a breath and the sound of that quiet inhalation causes Lexa’s gaze to flick up to meet hers. What Clarke glimpses there—affection, respect, consideration, desire, a swirling maelstrom that would be so easy to get lost in—confirms everything she needs to know.

“I’m ready now.”


	4. dismantled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visual: Clarke wearing Lexa’s shoulder guard.

Lexa’s dozing, lashes fanning so prettily against her cheeks, when Clarke slips from beneath the furs. A breeze ripples the drapes, sets the candles flickering wildly for a handful of seconds. Clarke shivers as the slight chill hits the sweat still cooling on her bare skin.

On the floor there’s a haphazard trail of discarded underwear, boots, various items of cotton and leather, and Clarke collects them all. Places them in a neat pile on the couch. She stoops to retrieve Lexa’s shoulder guard, the first thing to hit the ground as soon as they’d barged through the double doors. Now Clarke handles it with care, a quiet kind of reverence. It’s heavier than she expects. The rubber is scuffed and scratched. The sash that hangs from it, soft, worn thin in places, the hem dirty from dragging along the dusty floors of the tower.

For a long moment Clarke stands there. Considers. Hesitates. Tests the weight of it, the ceremonial garb of Heda, in her hands. A glance over her shoulder confirms that Lexa is still asleep, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

It’s a little awkward, putting the guard on. Clarke fumbles with the strap. Nearly drops it twice. A tiny rush of daring, adrenaline, furtive guilt, makes her fingers shake. It fastens with a quiet click. The rubber is cool against her skin, sends a small shiver charging down her spine. The sash tickles her back, her ass, the backs of her thigh and calf. She’s so lost in the sensation, the odd thrill of borrowed power that steals over her, that she almost misses the sudden, sharp intake of breath behind her.

She freezes. Turns slowly at the noise, the drape of fabric tangling around her legs. Lexa’s sitting up in the bed, propped on her elbows, the covers having slipped down to reveal the scattering of mouth-shaped bruises across her chest. Clarke can’t help the way her gaze strays to Lexa’s breasts, if only for a second. Lexa’s expression is unreadable, green eyes burning, jaw working back and forth as the silence stretches thick and heavy between them.

“Sorry,” Clarke mutters, ducking her head. Wearing Lexa’s mantle is probably treason. A capital offence. She scrambles to remove it. “I shouldn’t have-”

“No.” 

That single word echoes around the room. Makes the rest of Clarke’s apology get stuck in her throat. She snaps her mouth shut. Dares a glance up and nearly chokes on her saliva at the heavy-lidded stare bearing down on her.

Lexa’s eyes drag up the length of Clarke’s body and she shifts on the balls of her feet. For half a moment she has the absurd thought to cover herself up. Instead she lifts her chin, squares her shoulders, keeps her hands resolutely clenched into fists by her sides. She watches as Lexa presses her lips together, sees the straining tendon that stands out on her neck, the throb of the pulse at her throat.

Lexa’s voice issues low, steady, when she says, “Keep it on.” A pause, a flicker of Lexa’s lashes. The tiniest curl of her lip. “Wanheda.”


	5. along for the ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeee have Lexa fucking Clarke with a strap on. Clarke riding Lexa would be so hot.

“So, I have a small confession,“ Clarke begins, an unusual hint of nerves causing her voice to waver slightly. “I know we agreed not to get each other anything but… I sorta did.”

Lexa looks at her, eyebrows pulling together in confusion.

They’d discussed this early on in their relationship. Clarke insisted they weren’t going to be the insufferably cutesy kind of couple that marks every minor dating milestone. Lexa had gone along with it because, well, it’s what Clarke wanted. And, as their friends so gleefully like to point out, Lexa is whipped.

Still, in lesbian years, three months _is_ a long time. She really should’ve heeded her instincts and done something special. An evening at a moderately nice Italian restaurant seems inadequate now, more so considering they split the check. She casts an eye around the living room, wondering if there’s something she could pass off as a last-minute present. A scented candle, maybe?

In quiet dismay she lets her shoulders slump. “Clarke, I don’t have a gift for you.“

A warm palm settles on her thigh and squeezes. “Hey, it’s okay. I know I sprung this on you but,” Clarke bites her lip and Lexa’s eyes are drawn to Clarke’s mouth, stained a little red as it is by the wine they’d had at dinner. A tiny smile tugs at Clarke’s lips. “Consider this a treat for both of us.”

…Okay.

Curiosity piqued, Lexa forgets to feel guilty about her abject failure as a girlfriend. At least for the moment.

She watches as Clarke leans over the arm of the couch to retrieve a package. It’s about the size of a shoebox, wrapped in glossy silver paper and adorned with a ribbon tied into a perfect bow. The box is placed into Lexa’s lap.

“Go ahead. Open it.”

They share a look. Clarke’s eyes are wide and encouraging.

Lexa plucks at the ribbon, carefully tears the paper open to reveal a plain black box beneath. She pries the lid off. Discards the covering sheet of thin tissue paper. And nearly swallows her own tongue when she discovers what’s inside.

It’s a strap-on.

Clarke’s three month anniversary gift to her is a strap-on dildo.

It takes a few seconds for that fact to sink in. When it does, Lexa’s mouth drops open slightly. She drags her gaze from the contents of the box to the hopeful expression on Clarke’s face.

“I thought we could try it?” Clarke says with a lift of her eyebrows. There’s a tinge of pink to her cheeks. She laces her fingers together tightly on her own knee, as if she’s trying to stop herself from fidgeting. “I mean, I know we half-joked about it a few times but—”

“Clarke.” It comes out a little strangled. Lexa clears her throat. Wets suddenly parched lips. She doesn’t miss the way Clarke’s eyes latch on to the brief glimpse of tongue as it swipes across her lower lip. How those eyes seem to darken to a deeper shade of blue. “You want us to… to… With this?”

Clarke gives a small, eager nod, even as the flush on her cheeks intensifies. “Yeah.” Her voice cracks around that one syllable. It sends a low tug of arousal, a trickle of warmth between Lexa’s thighs. “Yeah, I do.” Before the question is even fully formed in Lexa’s mind, Clarke clarifies. “And I want you to wear it.“ 

  
*  


Holed up in the bathroom, it takes Lexa a few minutes to adjust the elasticated straps around her hips and ass until the harness is sitting comfortably. She’d refused Clarke’s earlier offer of help but now she’s wishing she hadn’t. Because she’s quietly dreading the grand reveal. She feels pretty ridiculous in this getup but, if this is what Clarke wants, then Lexa’s damn well going to rise to the occasion.

Still.

For a long moment she stares at her reflection in the mirror, quietly agog. Aside from the strap-on, she’s completely naked and, _Jesus_ , it’s fucking obscene. And, okay, maybe it does look kind of sexy with her hair tumbling over her shoulders and the tops of her breasts like that.

But,  _God_.

 

“Lexa? Are you all right in there?” she hears, the words muffled by the door.

“Coming,” she calls out, rolling her shoulders back and giving herself a final once over.

She looks up to the ceiling, takes a deep breath, and reaches for the door handle.

  
*  


To say she’s unprepared for Clarke’s immediate reaction is an understatement.

“Fuck” is the first word that falls from Clarke’s mouth, long and drawn out, followed by “me”. She's sucking on her bottom lip and her eyes are as big as saucers, looking at Lexa like she’s Christmas, Thanksgiving, and the Fourth of July all rolled into one.

“Oh my God. That looks so fucking hot on you,” Clarke says, sounding overawed, as she slumps back into the pillows piled up against the headboard.

The heated expression on Clarke’s face, her unselfconscious nudity, how she’s just openly  _staring_ , sends a jolt straight to Lexa’s cunt. That, combined with the way the strap-on’s pressing against her—there’s a little nub at the base of the toy that’s snug against her clit—well, it’s putting her ability to last more than two minutes into serious doubt. Part of her thinks that if Clarke was to so much as breathe on her this instant, she might come.

And the dildo. It’s… petite. (A starter one, Clarke had said, as if that was supposed to be reassuring). It’s only five inches long but it’s girthy and smooth and curves up towards the tip. She’s still kind of spinning out over the fact that Clarke presumably went onto some website and _chose_ this for her. Like, what was the thought process involved? Did Clarke think this shade of luminous purple would look especially complimentary against her skin tone? Shit… does it glow in the dark?

But, oh, when Clarke draws her knees up, bare feet sliding smoothly against the crisp white sheets, spreading her thighs wide enough to expose glistening pink folds—well, Lexa forgets all about trying to understand the rationale behind Clarke’s purchase. The visual evidence that Clarke’s wet already is enough to dispel all other thoughts and propel Lexa forward. (Although it takes some effort to ignore the way the strap-on bobs with every step.)

Closer now, standing beside the edge of the bed, Lexa sees that Clarke’s pupils are blown wide. She sets one knee on the mattress but pauses when something occurs to her. “Uh, don’t we need lube?”

Heavy lashes flutter slightly as Clarke shakes her head. The movement loosens a few strands of hair from her up-do. “Lubrication isn’t going to be an issue, believe me. I thought about this all through dinner. Actually, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it all day. I had to change my underwear twice.”

Lexa blinks. “Now I know why you were so keen to leave before dessert.”

Clarke meets her stare dead-on and it stops Lexa’s heart for a split-second, leaves her mouth dry. If looks could impregnate, Lexa would be knocked up with twins. Triplets, even. “Just get on top of me already.”

“Okay but before we begin I need to remind you that I’m a complete novice at this.” Lexa gestures towards the object jutting so rudely from her crotch. “So, if I suck, I apologise in advance.”

Something softens in Clarke’s eyes. “It’s you and me, Lexa. It’s never going to suck. Anyway,” she shimmies down the pillows a bit, allowing her legs to fall even further apart. “I’ll steer you around the curves.”

Putting her performance anxiety aside, Lexa climbs onto the bed.

  
*  


Clarke sucks in a breath and Lexa freezes, uncertain, palms planted flat on either side of Clarke’s shoulders. “Are you okay?”

Off Lexa’s worried look, Clarke runs a soothing hand down the slope of her spine, over the curve of her ass. “It’s a little cold, that’s all.”

They both glance down between them, to the firm length of silicone brushing along the inside of Clarke’s thigh. “Was I supposed to warm it up first? I mean, with my hand or something? I’m sorry—“

“Lexa, it’s fine. This is new for both of us. We’ll figure it out together, okay?”

After a second Lexa gives a shallow nod.

“Here, let me just…” Clarke’s hand, the one not splayed over the crest of Lexa’s ass, dips between her own legs to gather up some of the wetness pooling there. Their eyes remain locked while she slicks up the shaft, enough that her hand, wrapped loosely around its girth, slides down and back up in one smooth motion.

Even though the pressure is light, Lexa feels the tug, the press of the base against her clit. This time it’s her who makes a noise. Quiet, stifled, but obvious enough for wide blue eyes to dart between her own as Clarke’s palm continues to work. Because, God, Lexa feels the friction and pull like the toy’s an extension of her own body. She isn’t aware that her hips have started to move, rocking into Clarke’s closed fist, until Clarke’s soft groan alerts her to the fact.

“This is so…” Clarke says, seemingly incapable of articulating herself. “You are so… Fuck.”

These words, husky and low, make Lexa’s arms tremble. She swallows thickly, presses her lips together to suppress a whimper, as Clarke guides the strap-on to her soaked cunt. Slicks it up more until it’s shiny and gliding easily down her slit and, sweet Jesus, Lexa isn’t ready for this. She can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t focus on anything except the way Clarke spreads herself with two fingers. How she drags the curved tip back up through wet folds, coating it liberally. And, fuck. _Fuck_. The throaty noise she lets out when Lexa’s hips press forward, nudging the toy against the reddened swell of her clit, is almost too much.

“God, Lexa, I want you inside me,” Clarke says. Her breath hitches up. “Please.”

Lexa’s whole body flushes with heat at the pleading note in Clarke’s voice, the desperate, ragged edge to her words, that hungry, heavy-lidded stare. Her heart is hammering so hard she feels it vibrate up through her chest and into her throat.

Poised, ready, all it takes is a small shunt of her hips. Lexa pushes in slowly, carefully, watching Clarke’s face for the slightest sign of discomfort. “How’s this?” she asks, more than a little breathless. She _feels_ the squeeze of Clarke’s muscles, the tiniest bit of resistance. She has to shut her eyes for a second to try to wrestle back some semblance of control, not to thrust in hard like she fears she might.

“It’s good. You feel so good.” Clarke’s chin tips up, lips parting on a moan as Lexa goes incrementally deeper, deeper, until, finally, she bottoms out. “God, come here.”

Clarke reaches for her, both hands threading into Lexa’s hair to draw her down into a slow, deep kiss. Lexa licks into the hot, wet space of Clarke’s mouth, swiping her tongue along the ridged roof, swallowing the moan Clarke lets out when she begins to roll her hips. Pulling out an inch or two and slipping back in easily (so fucking easily, because Clarke is _drenched_ ). Grinding a little when their pelvises meet in a gentle bump of hipbones.

Soon they find a rhythm. Lexa only falters a few times. They don’t stop kissing, chasing each other’s lips every time the other pulls away to catch their breath. Clarke’s hands move over her restlessly, abandoning the hold on Lexa’s hair to slide down her chest. Palms smoothing over her sternum, curving over her breasts. Thumbs circling, teasing, until Lexa’s nipples feel tight and sensitive, an ache that seems tethered to the growing tension between her legs. She ruts a little harder, encouraged by Clarke’s soft gasp, by the way she spreads herself wider, how she meets Lexa’s thrusts with a shallow buck of her hips. The slick noises, the dull slap of skin, every catch of breath and raspy moan from Clarke’s mouth leave Lexa’s cheeks and the tips of her ears superheated but she doesn’t let up for a second.

Not when Clarke lifts her legs to cross her ankles behind Lexa’s knees. Not when Clarke begins to undulate beneath her. Not when Clarke’s spine arches and her head tips back and her jaw drops. Not when she grabs Lexa’s ass with both hands, nails digging in, bucking her pelvis up into Lexa’s and driving the strap-on in at just the right angle. Even then Lexa doesn’t stop swivelling her hips, the head of the toy rubbing relentlessly over one particular spot that has Clarke’s choking on a broken cry and clawing at Lexa’s back.

And, God, Lexa swears she feels Clarke’s orgasm pulsing all the way down the dildo to her own clit. It’s enough to tip her over the edge too, shaking, shuddering, elbows knocking against her sides as she struggles to support her own weight.

She eases out gradually, both of them shivering as the strap-on slips free with an obscenely wet noise. There’s slickness streaking down both their inner thighs, dripping off the toy and onto the sheets between Clarke’s legs.

Dropping to her elbows, Lexa brings her forehead to rest against Clarke’s slightly sweaty one. Strands of blonde hair cling to Clarke’s temples, the up-do in hopeless disarray now. “Oh my God, Lexa,” Clarke says, more of a ragged exhalation than anything else. “Why didn’t we do this sooner? Seriously.”

Lexa only hums her agreement, instead planting a series of tiny kisses over Clarke’s cheek and jaw and throat. She presses her lips against the throb of Clarke’s pulse point. Nuzzles the spot where neck meets shoulder. Drags her mouth back up the column of Clarke’s neck. Touches her tongue to salty skin that still holds a trace of sweet floral perfume. Scrapes her teeth over the carotid artery, up to the edge of Clarke’s jaw. Retracing that path until there are fingers tangling in her hair again, guiding her to Clarke’s waiting mouth.

It’s a determined kiss, one that has them both panting hotly into it within minutes. Clarke bites at Lexa’s bottom lip, soothes the sting with a slow lick. When Lexa opens her eyes it’s to find Clarke staring at her with an intensity that sears across her skin.

One dark blonde brow arches. “Ready to go again?”

  
*  


That’s how Lexa finds herself flat on her back, Clarke kneeling astride her lap and riding her with gusto.

There’s something about the sight of Clarke like this: eyes dark and wanting, lower lip drawn between her teeth, hands laid flat on the slope of Lexa’s ribs to steady herself, that causes Lexa’s heart to beat triple-time. She can’t tear her eyes away from the strap-on, from the glimpse of the shiny wet shaft before it disappears inside Clarke over and over again, cunt stretched open and grasping around the thickness of it. Can’t get over all the greedy, needy, throaty little noises that Clarke makes as she drives her hips down.

Lexa’s barely moving, letting Clarke do most of the work and, holy _fuck_ , if it isn’t one of the hottest things she’s ever seen: Clarke fucking herself on Lexa, on this toy Clarke picked out for them. And the knowledge that Clarke’s been planning this for some time, that she probably imagined this exact scenario, is blowing Lexa’s mind right now.

“I’m close. Are you?” Clarke asks, not losing pace for a second.

Fingernails rake lightly down Lexa’s abs, causing her muscles to bunch and tighten in response. A little whimper leaks out the side of her mouth but she nods. Because, fuck, yes. The pressure is building so fast in the pit of her stomach she thinks it might only take a few more seconds of Clarke pumping her hips for her to lose the last threads of self-control. Her hands scramble for purchase in the sheets, desperate to ground herself. She watches as Clarke lifts one hand off her quivering stomach and brings it between her own legs. Two fingers rub at her clit in quick, tight circles. All the while keeping eye contact, Clarke never once looking away from Lexa as her hips roll and her tits bounce and her fingers circle.

God. It’s too much. Lexa can’t hold back any longer, can’t stop the way her pelvis surges up so suddenly that it makes Clarke lose balance and tip forward. She barely has time to brace herself, one hand slapping down beside Lexa’s shoulder. It’s this new angle that has Clarke gasping out as her body begins to quake, thighs trembling, taking the strap-on deep once, twice more before she lets out a low, keening moan.

It’s the sound as much as the sight of Clarke breaking apart and looking so beautifully wrecked while doing it that has Lexa following her seconds later.

  
*  


Afterwards, wrapped up in Lexa’s arms, Clarke spends long minutes tracing the slight indentations the harness left on Lexa’s skin. The gentle touch sends pleasant ripples of sensation down Lexa’s body and she smiles into Clarke’s damp hairline, tightening her hold around Clarke’s waist.

“So…” Clarke says, ending the drowsy, contented silence. “Did you like it?” 

Despite the teasing in Clarke’s tone, there’s an undercurrent of something else in her words. A tiny hint of uncertainty.

“Of course I did,” Lexa murmurs against Clarke’s temple. (As if the two orgasms they had apiece put it in any doubt that Lexa enjoyed the experience.) She purses her lips, chooses her next words carefully. “Although I don’t think I’d want to use it every time.”

Clarke rears back slightly to meet Lexa’s gaze, remaining within the embrace. “Oh, Lexa, no. Did you think…?” She shakes her head, blue eyes large and serious. A crease forms on her brow. “God, no, I thought it could be an occasional thing. We don’t have to use it again if you don’t want to.”

She reaches behind to pick up Lexa’s hand. Brings it to her lips to dot kisses along the knuckles. “I love your fingers. I love the way you touch me.” She leans up to capture Lexa’s lips in a brief but potent kiss. Rests her chin on Lexa’s chest. Smirks slightly, glancing up at Lexa from beneath her lashes. “You _know_ how much I love your mouth.” She kisses Lexa again, soft and sweet, sighing into the contact. “I love you. With or without extra appendages.”

“I love you, too,” Lexa whispers against Clarke’s parted lips. A small smile tips up the corners of her mouth. “And I didn’t say I never wanted to try it again, Clarke. Practice makes perfect, right?”

They sink into another unhurried kiss, a gentle push and pull with no particular destination beyond savouring the taste of each other. It goes on and on until Clarke finally draws back, brushing her nose alongside Lexa’s.

She looks at Lexa, biting her lip. “In that case, is this a good time to discuss our six month anniversary? Because I have some ideas…”


	6. she makes the darkness seem bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bruh. How about Clexa sleeping together (sleeping sleeping) and in the middle of the night one of them, at your discretion, decides it’s sexy time?
> 
> *
> 
> Bruh. I went off on a slight tangent but I hope you like it.

In the pale pre-dawn Clarke stirs awake. The murky grey light renders her surroundings unfamiliar and, for the span of a few heartbeats, she’s disorientated, chest gripped by a small, sharp stab of panic.

But fragments return to her: Lexa’s untethered smile as she pressed Clarke down into the pillows; the slow trail of fingers along her inner thigh; endless kisses that swallowed up a golden afternoon; all thoughts of leaving this place, this bed, this girl pushed to one side. In the end it wasn’t words that convinced Clarke to stay (“That’s why I… That’s why you’re you”); it was the revelation of Lexa’s mouth and hands on her skin, devoted and certain even as Lexa trembled. And Clarke took and took of it, greedily, selfishly. Because a single snatched hour before parting ways, possibly for good, was never going to be enough.

Now, hours later, she’s tangled up in warm sheets, sweltering beneath pelts of furs. She pushes the covers off, grateful for the slight breeze that drifts across her bare skin.

The candles have long since burned down to the wicks and it takes a handful of seconds for Clarke’s eyes to adjust to the gloom. Her gaze falls upon the indistinct shape of the person lying next to her. The outlines of Lexa’s body are shadowed except for the spill of moonlight across her exposed back, where the intricate details of the tattoo stand out in relief. Hours ago Clarke had traced the ink for the first time, the pads of her fingers sweeping curiously over soft skin, quietly revelling in the shiver it drew from Lexa. She’d traced and retraced the elegant vertical lines, dragged a fingernail around each circle, soaked up every word of Lexa’s explanation. She’d wanted to press her lips there, too. To leave her own mark. A reminder. So Lexa wouldn’t forget.

God, she itches to touch Lexa now, to see and feel the shift of muscles below the surface. Her fingers hover, barely grazing, able to feel the heat that radiates off Lexa’s body. It’s a source of surprise, how warm Lexa is. She wonders if a higher core temperature is a side-effect of the nightblood or if it’s just something intrinsic to Lexa herself. Either way she’d had to roll out of Lexa’s arms during the night when it became too stiflingly hot.

It’s yet another thing to add to the list of discoveries Clarke’s made today: how Lexa cried when she kissed her; how slight Lexa actually is once she’s undressed—thin shoulders and long, willowy limbs that belie a wiry kind of strength; how pliant and responsive she is beneath Clarke’s eager hands; that the indomitable Heda, the fearless Commander of Twelve Clans, needs a _nap_ after she comes. The latter had been a particularly happy discovery, one Clarke thinks she may eventually tease Lexa about.

Almost as soon as she sets her fingers against Lexa’s spine she feels the girl start. A jolt so sudden that Clarke recoils. Within a second Lexa’s sitting bolt upright, coiled and ready to spring into action, one hand searching under the pillows for the dagger Clarke realises must be hidden there.

“It’s okay. It’s me, Lexa.”

A sharp breath is released then, “Clarke.”

Soft, disbelieving, as if Lexa wasn’t expecting to find Clarke still in her bed. In the pale half-light her face is shrouded in shadow and Clarke wishes she could see her properly.

“I’m here,” Clarke says quietly, emphatically. Part of her hates that Lexa clearly assumed she might slip away in the dead of night. She wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

She places her hand on Lexa’s forearm, feels the instant the tension drains from Lexa’s body. Doesn’t let go, even as Lexa sinks back against the pillows. She strokes the downy hairs from wrist to elbow. Up, down, in a soothing motion, the light scrape of her nails raising goosebumps along Lexa’s skin.

“I didn’t mean to wake you. I just—” She stops short. Too sheepish to explain why she’d had this sudden urge to touch, to reassure herself that this isn’t all a dream. Fearful that any second she’s going to wake up in a cell in Arkadia, alone and wishing she’d had the courage to follow her heart and not her head. Because none of this feels real and she desperately needs it to be. This—her and Lexa—is the only good thing, the only hopeful thing, she has to show for all the horrific choices she’s been forced to make on the ground.

Lexa shifts onto her side, moves closer, and in doing so the moonlight illuminates her features. There’s something almost wistful in her expression. Like she understands.

Clarke closes her fingers around Lexa’s wrist. Pulls until Lexa’s pressed along the length of her body and they’re sharing the same pillow. Her skin prickles where it touches Lexa’s: thighs, stomachs, breasts. She’s hyperaware of the graze of Lexa’s nipples, pebbled and hard, against her own; the gust of breath across her chin; how enormous and dark Lexa’s eyes are when they’re this close. As if they’re staring into Clarke’s soul, if she believed in such a thing. It’s a heady feeling. One that leaves her throat tight, yearning to eliminate the small space between them.

So she gives in to that impulse.

She only has to tip her chin forward to brush her lips across Lexa’s. Feels the short little inhalation before Lexa’s mouth opens to her, soft and yielding. Lexa’s fingers wrap around her hip bone, slide beneath her jaw, gathering Clarke flush against her body. Clarke cups her palm around Lexa’s cheek, angling deeper. She runs her tongue along the fullness of Lexa’s bottom lip, licks into her mouth, takes every hitch of breath, every soft sound of pleasure into herself.

This kiss consumes her, fuels a fire that burns fast and bright through Clarke’s body. It’s chased by a shiver, a cool charge that runs up and down her spine and dissipates into the knot of tension in her stomach. She grows restless, impatient. She wants for something she can’t articulate. Lexa, them, here, this, always. All she knows is that she can’t get enough of Lexa’s mouth or the warm, wet slide of her tongue as she meets it with her own.

Her other hand wanders, seeks out the shallow dips and firm contours of Lexa’s body, settles on the curve of a small breast. The nipple pokes against her palm as she kneads at the flesh, a perfect little handful, and Lexa gasps quietly into her mouth. Clarke pulls away only to drag her parted lips along Lexa’s jawline, which she may or may not have spent the last six days fixating upon (along with those cheekbones and those eyes and those lips and…) It isn’t her fault. That jaw might as well have been sculpted from marble. She could fill reams of paper with sketches of the perfect cut-glass slope of it. All from memory.

And, God, Lexa’s scent is intoxicating. Clarke noses the corner of Lexa’s jaw, the patch of skin behind her ear where it meets her hairline. The soft waves of her hair hold the fragrance of wildflowers and petrichor and mossy earth. Clarke breathes it in. Lungs filled to capacity with—

“Lexa,” she sighs, lost in the warmth of this girl.

She mouths a damp path down Lexa’s neck, darts her tongue against the thrum of the pulse point, can’t resist scraping her teeth against tender skin. The noise that escapes Lexa’s throat puts mischief in Clarke’s mind. She sucks against that wildly beating pulse for a few prolonged seconds, enough pressure to coax a bruise to the surface.

“ _Clarke_.” The fingers at her hip tighten. A hand weaves into her hair and tugs.

“What?” Clarke smiles into Lexa’s skin, unrepentant. “This is what teenagers are supposed to do: leave embarrassing hickeys in visible places.”

“Hickey?”

“A love bite,” Clarke clarifies then her eyes widen at the connotation. Now she’s glad her face is obscured by the semi-darkness. It’s not that she doesn’t—it’s just… Feelings. Looming large and entirely too scary and too soon to acknowledge in the open. She clears her throat. “Sorry. Something kids did on the Ark. If you liked someone, sometimes you’d get carried away while you’re making out. Kind of letting the world know this person is taken. It’s juvenile. I don’t know why I…”

Clarke snaps her jaw shut because she’s only making it worse.

Silence stretches then, “Marking of territory. I see.” Lexa’s neutral tone gives nothing away. Clarke half-expects to be admonished. Something along the lines of “Heda belongs only to her people”. Instead, she gets a question: “May I return this… bite?”

Clarke’s heart stutters. She has trouble pulling air into her lungs. She’s pretty sure she’s gaping. Again, thank God for the poor lighting because her cheeks feel like they’re on fire. She finds herself nodding before she’s really had time to fully comprehend what Lexa’s asking. When she speaks her voice is conspicuously husky, “If that’s what you want.”

“I want what you want, Clarke.”

It’s said so seriously, so earnestly it almost makes Clarke laugh, considering they’re talking about a damn hickey. She refrains from rolling her eyes but only just.

“What I want,” Clarke says, “is for us to stop talking and for you to kiss me.”

Lexa nods, the slightest rise and fall of her chin. Their faces are so close together that Lexa’s nose grazes Clarke’s own with the movement. Everything seems to narrow to the hot puff of Lexa’s breath on her lips. Then they’re both in motion, mouths colliding, parting on a quick inhalation, before slanting together again.

Clarke’s hardly aware of being rolled onto her back until she feels the bed dip under her body, the bracket of Lexa’s thighs around her hips, the crush of their breasts, the gentle scratch of damp hair and slippery heat against her lower abdomen. The hand woven into her hair pulls, tilts her head back, as the kiss turns deep and heavy.

Clarke arches, clutches desperately at Lexa. Splayed palms run from the jut of shoulder blades, down the smooth planes of Lexa’s back, over the swell of her ass. Clarke grips, squeezes, swallows the soft groan that reverberates against the roof of her mouth. That sound sends ripples down the length of Clarke’s body, has arousal settling liquid and molten between her thighs.

She drags her mouth away, panting quietly into the tiny gap between their parted lips. She can barely make out the green of Lexa’s eyes, bleached of colour as they are in the moonlight. Her gaze is heavy, half-lidded. Mouth swollen and wet. She looks like she’s two seconds from ravaging Clarke and Clarke-well, she wouldn’t object in the slightest.

It’s without conscious intent that their hands migrate over quivering stomachs and thighs. There’s a simultaneous catch of breath; a flutter of eyelashes; a twin groan when their fingers delve and glide low; another that gets muffled by the reconnection of their mouths, open and hot and greedy.

Two slender fingers swirling through the slick between her legs pull a low, rough moan from Clarke. She feels the way Lexa’s lips tip up into a smile. Her own fingers mirror the action, the tip of one passing over and around the edge of Lexa’s entrance. The tiny shudder it provokes, the meaningful rock of hips, has Clarke smiling into the kiss herself. 

“Together?” Clarke asks, breathless. She can’t seem to stop kissing Lexa. She doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to sate this thirst for it, now that she knows all about the quiet, needy noises Lexa makes. There’s no coming back from it. This girl is the beginning and the end.

Lexa nods, the barest movement of her brow grazing against Clarke’s. She draws back only far enough to change the angle of the kiss. “Together, Clarke.”


	7. animal attraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: after the pauna adventure, Lexa's in her tent having a little trouble getting ready for her bath because of her arm. Clarke happens to stop by.

The two guards don’t spare a glance at Clarke as she approaches, one wordlessly lifting aside the flap of the tent to allow her entry without obstruction.

Sat on a low stool and struggling with the strap of her pauldron, Lexa looks up at Clarke’s arrival, something frayed at the edges of the Commander's usually controlled demeanour: a flicker of discomfort quickly tamped down upon.

“You’re leaving,” Lexa says without inflection.

“I need to get back to Camp Jaha to find out if Bellamy’s made contact."

“I’ve provided an escort and our fastest horses for your journey."

“Thank you."

Lexa chin barely lifts when she nods, a dismissal. But Clarke hesitates, watching as Lexa’s face contorts more openly into a grimace as she tries to shrug off the pauldron.

“Here, let me help you."

“I’m more than capable—"

Clarke brushes Lexa’s hand aside, ignoring the sharp stare directed at her. “I know.” Her fingers are steady, despite the apprehension that gnaws at her insides whenever she’s alone with Lexa. She lifts the pauldron away, careful not to jostle Lexa’s injury. "My mom should take a look at your arm before we go. It's possible you have a fracture."

Lexa purses her lips. “Nyko will attend to me."

"You still don’t trust us.”

It isn’t a question; instead, a quiet, disappointed observation. Lexa is silent while Clarke continues to peel off the light armour, piece by piece. By the time Clarke’s released the buckled corset around her waist Lexa seems to deflate a little, spine losing some of its rigidity.

“Your people have yet to earn my trust,” Lexa says, a touch of weariness in her voice. Her eyes flick up to hold Clarke’s. “But you have proven yourself worthy, Clarke."

The significance of those words leaves Clarke a little staggered. She ducks her head. It’s a second or two before she realises she’s fiddling with the hem of Lexa’s shirt. She lets go. Refocuses on the task at hand. “Sorry, I think we’re gonna have to cut you out of this."

The slight downtown of Lexa’s mouth makes her displeasure known. Nevertheless, she slides her dagger from it’s sheath at her waist and passes it to Clarke handle-first.

Clarke takes the weapon, eyebrows raised.

“We’ll soon discover if my trust is misplaced,” Lexa says, deadpan.

She’s probably breaking about a dozen Grounder laws by raising a blade to the Commander so Clarke tries to keep her hand steady as she slices through the thick material of Lexa’s sleeve, all the way up to her shoulder. The last thing she wants to do is nick Lexa’s skin. With a small internal sigh of relief she cuts the sleeve free, only to wince at the deep purple and black bruising that covers Lexa’s swollen bicep.

“God,” Clarke mutters. “How are you not passed out right now?"

Lexa firms her jaw. “Pain is only a state of mind. A weakness to be conquered.”

“Well, you’re a person, Lexa. You’re certainly not impervious to… this."

“I’m heda.”

As if that’s justification enough to suffer in silence. It takes everything Clarke has not to roll her eyes. She resumes slicing through the ruined shirt, this time an inch from Lexa’s armpit, down the side of her torso. Enough to pull the fabric off Lexa’s body and over her head, getting momentarily caught up in her braids.

And— _oh_.

Clarke’s gaze wanders. She doesn’t mean to look it’s just...

Lexa has a tattoo. It spans her upper right arm, four segments with intricate swirls that Clarke has the compulsion to trace with her fingertips. She doesn’t know why it didn’t occur to her that Lexa might be tattooed—most of the Grounders are—but the sight of all that black ink has her swallowing against a dry lump in her throat.

But that’s not all that holds Clarke's attention.

She takes in the slope of Lexa’s bare shoulders, the elegant lines of her collarbones, the rise of her breasts concealed beneath a chest wrap. Lingers over the tightly bunched muscles of Lexa’s abdomen, the divot of her navel.

When Clarke finally drags her eyes back up it’s to find Lexa studying her just as intently, lips slightly parted. Lexa reaches for one boot and taps the side of it meaningfully. “Could you...?"

Clarke blinks to dispel the haze that’s fallen over her. “Oh. Yeah, sure.”

She crouches. Lexa braces her good arm on the edge of the stool. Between them they manage to wrestle both boots off.

“You, uh, can probably handle the rest by yourself,” Clarke says, dusting off her pants as she pushes back to her feet.

“Thank you, Clarke."

Lexa stands. Barefoot, she’s no taller than Clarke. With the height difference gone, it should put her more at ease but for some reason the knot of tension in Clarke’s stomach only grows tighter.

Lexa says nothing as she loosens the straps on her thighs, opens the button at the waistband of her pants, and pushes the tight, worn material down to her knees. She takes a seat on the stool again to pull the pants the rest of the way off. The sight of her bare legs, long and toned and tan, leaves Clarke quietly flustered, her throat parched.

She should look away. Excuse herself. But she doesn’t.

“Was there something else?” Lexa asks, rising up.

She slips past Clarke, with the slightest brush of their shoulders. Disappears behind a thin, diaphanous curtain that sections this area off from the rest of the tent. There’s a bathtub clearly visible on the other side, steam rising from the water. Why hadn’t Clarke noticed that before now? Is it normal for Lexa to transport her own personal bathing facilities around wherever she travels? To strip to her underwear in full view of tentative allies?

Clarke has to force her mouth to work.

“What’s going to happen to the pauna?"

Lexa’s voice is barely audible over the splash of water as she lowers herself into the tub. “A contingent of my warriors and villagers from Tondc have volunteered to hunt it."

Not that Clarke has any sympathy for a giant bloodthirsty gorilla but, “It’s trapped. Couldn't you just starve it out?"

More watery sounds: a jug pouring, a cloth being wrung out. Clarke’s gaze strays to the curtain, to Lexa's silhouette, then away.

“The pauna has long posed a threat to the safety of my people. Weakened and contained as the creature is, that cage won’t hold it forever. This is the ideal opportunity to strike."

“I’m sure Raven could rig something to take it out without risking any more lives."

“That’s not our way, Clarke."

She toes at the rug beneath her feet. A minute passes and she realises that she’s stalling for no good reason. “Okay. Well. I’ll send a messenger if we hear anything from Bellamy over the radio."

She’s halfway to the tent flap when a quiet “Clarke” brings her up short. She’s almost convinced she imagined it when Lexa’s next words are: “Would you mind assisting me? I’m unable to reach my back."

She could refuse. Pretend she didn’t hear and carry on walking. Maybe it’s a test or a trap. Maybe...

Clarke pushes the curtain aside.

The tub is deep and whatever fragrant oils have been added to the water have made it milky and opaque enough to obscure anything inappropriate. Lexa's unruly mane of curls and braids has been scooped to one side and the first thing Clarke notices is the tattoo that runs the length of her spine.

It’s astonishing. Beautiful.

Lexa regards her steadily and it takes Clarke a handful of seconds to remember what she’s supposed to be doing. She takes off her jacket, rolls up the sleeves of her henley, and kneels beside the tub. Lexa hands over the wet cloth, their fingers brushing in the exchange. That innocuous touch, the fleeting glide of Lexa’s long fingers against her own, makes Clarke’s stomach swoop.

Lexa scoots a little further forward, hunched over and hugging her knees one-armed. The displacement of the water as it sloshes against the side reveals more of the tattoo: black spheres of diminishing size that disappear below the waterline. Clarke wonders how far down that tattoo goes.

“What does this mean?” The question’s out before she can think better of it. She follows the bold lines, the circumference of the circles with the edge of the cloth.

“It was given to me on my ascension day.”

That’s all the explanation Lexa gives. Whatever the tattoo represents, whatever this ‘ascension' entails, Lexa clearly isn't going to elaborate.

Clarke continues scrubbing slowly, methodically at Lexa’s back, over her shoulders, the nape of her neck where another tattoo adorns her skin—some kind of infinity symbol. She drags the cloth down Lexa’s uninjured arm, again down her back, the notches of her spine, losing herself in the soothing motion until it’s her open palm gliding over Lexa’s skin instead of the rag. She isn’t sure when she let it drop into the water.

Clarke lifts her hand away. Mumbles an apology.

Lexa reclines against the tub and Clarke sees the perk of nipples as the murky water sloshes and settles. Inadvertent, unintentional, but she stares, eyes stuck. And Lexa, Lexa catches her looking, the corner of her mouth tipping up into a faint smile. So reminiscent of the one yesterday, when Clarke had told Lexa, “You may be heartless, but at least you’re smart.” How she'd practically _glowed_ , eyes lighting up. As if it wasn't a backhanded compliment, as if Clarke had said she was the most beautiful girl she’d ever met.

(God, but Lexa _is_.

Only, Clarke hasn’t allowed herself to think about that. Because of Finn; because of the fraught tension that hangs over their fragile alliance; because of the Mountain and this crazy plan to get Bellamy in there as their inside man. With all that to contend with, the last thing Clarke needs is the butterflies that erupt in her stomach every time Lexa stares at her from across the room. Which is often.

Clarke’s preoccupied and stressed beyond belief, yes, but she isn’t blind.)

So Clarke looks away, flushed. She moves to stand, to beat a hasty retreat, but Lexa rises with her, the water cascading off her skin. Utterly blithe about her nudity. Clarke’s mouth goes slack as Lexa steps out of the bathtub and into her space.

The low murmur of Lexa's voice doesn’t pull her from her stupor. Lexa speaks again and Clarke tunes into it this time. “A towel, Clarke?"

She’d do it, fetch whatever Lexa wants, but her feet and her brain don’t seem to be working in concert. She can’t take her eyes off Lexa’s body; the tattoo on her arm; small, pert breasts; the ghosts of old scars that have faded to white along her ribs. Clarke doesn’t dare look lower. When she forces her gaze up she finds Lexa’s dark and hooded. Lips parted. A dusting of pink high on Lexa’s cheekbones.

“I should go. My mom’ll be—”

“Clarke.” She watches Lexa’s throat bob, the tick of a muscle in her cheek as her jaw works. “I’m grateful for all that you did yesterday."

“Maybe you should thank me when you have some clothes on.” It’s intended to be flippant but the way Clarke’s voice cracks over the syllables betrays her.

Lexa glances down at herself, as if she’d forgotten she’s stark naked and dripping onto the floor, rivulets of water running down the lean lines of her body. Her nipples are puckered against the cool air inside the tent or perhaps from Clarke’s attention. It takes a concerted effort to look away; Clarke stares at the stitched seams of the tent so hard that her vision blurs.

She expects Lexa to walk away, to find something to cover herself. She sucks in a surprised breath when Lexa simply moves closer. Clarke feels the heat radiate off Lexa’s body, almost nudging against the water-speckled front of her shirt; feels the warm gust of Lexa’s breath upon her cheek.

The reaction of Clarke's own body is confounding. It’s been three days since she plunged a knife into a boy she thought she loved. It’s not right, not fair, the way she unfurls at Lexa’s proximity. When she turns her face to Lexa again it’s to find her even closer than she thought, mouth hovering only an inch or two from her own.

The air between them is charged, crackling with possibility. It reminds her of that moment when she stood on the precipice with Anya as they escaped Mount Weather. No way back, no chance of retreat. Only a free-falling plummet into unknown waters. Terrifying. Exhilarating. Necessary for survival.

“Lexa,” she tries and it comes out husky.

She doesn’t miss the slow droop of Lexa’s eyes as they fasten on her mouth. The living are hungry, Lexa told her, and Clarke’s never seen someone look more ravenous.

A feeling—hot, cold, electric—charges down her limbs when Lexa’s hand slides along her jaw, settles around the curve of her neck. It tingles all the way down to her fingertips, leaves her trembling, and it’s just a touch. She can’t imagine anything beyond it. Can’t, until—

Lexa’s lips are so soft. Pillowy, plush, generous, as they press against hers. They cling, barely move, an impossibly gentle brush that Clarke can’t wrap her mind around. Because she’s witnessed this girl spitting harsh orders to men twice her size, twice her age. Ferocious. Ruthless. Swathed in leather and warpaint. Bared teeth and flashing eyes. This girl cradles the base of Clarke’s skull in her hand, long fingers slipping through her hair carefully like it’s spun gold. Like Clarke’s something ephemeral that might vanish on a breeze.

The shock of it all makes Clarke gasp slightly. Lexa takes it as a cue to tilt her head, to part their lips, to deepen the kiss. And Clarke, Clarke follows blindly. All instinct. No thought. If she took a second to consider this—

(She’s kissing Lexa.

Or Lexa’s kissing her.

Lexa wants her.

She wants Lexa to want her.

Maybe… she wants Lexa, too.)

—then she’d put a stop to it. The ashes are barely cool on Finn’s pyre and Clarke’s so drawn to the girl who ordered his execution that it’s giving her emotional whiplash. None of it makes any sense. The only thing she’s sure of is the suffocating and twisting _something_ that grips her chest every time their eyes catch.

Her own hands find the dip of Lexa’s waist. She’s all lean, sinewy muscle. An expanse of warm, damp skin under the pads of Clarke’s fingers. Clarke clutches at her, pulls Lexa nearer still until hips and stomachs and breasts align. Lexa releases a soft halting sound into Clarke’s mouth and it travels down her throat, rattles through her rib cage, settles between her legs, heavy and liquid. It makes Clarke ache. Gives her the courage to sweep her tongue into Lexa’s open mouth. Someone groans—Lexa, herself, she isn’t certain—but something inside her catches alight at the sound, burns quick and fierce along her nerves.

She’s _making out_ with Lexa.

Lexa.

The Commander.

Leader of the Twelve Clans.

Clarke still doesn’t fully comprehend the magnitude of what that means, except that Lexa has an army of a thousand warriors hanging on her every word and hardened generals deferring to her absolute authority.

And this girl, heda, is sighing into the slide of Clarke’s tongue as it skates over the roof of her mouth, flicks at the backs of her teeth. Clarke’s kissed her share of boys and girls but none affected her like this: lungs burning, heat flooding her veins, a tingle growing at the base of her spine and spreading outwards.

Her hands roam, mapping the indentations between Lexa’s ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts. A wanting noise catches in Lexa’s throat and Clarke’s chest warms with pride that she could pull such a sound from someone, from _Lexa_. She feels the goosebumps that erupt across Lexa’s skin, the quiet urgency in Lexa’s kiss.

Clarke drags her mouth away only to gulp in some air. Smiles, giddy, at the way Lexa chases after her, nose crushed to her cheek, the soft puff of Lexa’s breath against her lips. Lexa hasn’t let go of her neck, fingers now sifting restlessly through the shorter, wispy hairs at the nape. It makes Clarke’s knees knock together. Leaves her shivering. Overwhelmed. Drugged and delirious on the taste, the heat, the nearness of Lexa.

Lexa, who is every bad girl fantasy come to life, yet somehow so gentle when she touches Clarke’s cheek, her jaw, tracing a thumb over Clarke’s swollen bottom lip. With more reverence than Clarke understands from someone she barely knows.

(She wants to learn about Lexa. In every way possible. What makes her laugh and rage and despair. What makes her bend. God, Clarke wants to see that.)

“Clarke.” It’s a whisper lost against Clarke’s mouth, barely a full formed word before their lips reconnect. Slower now, angling deeper, Lexa licking into her hot and heavy. The _reach_ of it sends her reeling, thoughts leaping ahead to that same tongue circling her nipples, painting a wet stripe up her inner thigh, lapping up the wetness between—

She lifts her hands to grab Lexa’s cheeks. Careless and greedy for more. Bumping Lexa’s injured arm in her blind haste.

“Jok,” Lexa all but hisses, wrenching away and clutching her elbow.

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry."

Lexa sucks in a breath, expels it roughly through her nostrils. Once, twice more, until the pinch between her brow evens out.

“Are you okay? Should I get Nyko?"

“I'm fine, Clarke."

“We need to strap your arm up again.” Off the peevish look of objection she receives, Clarke purses her lips. “Don’t argue, Lexa. Come on."

She leads them past the curtain and over to the cot buried beneath a pile of furs.

“Take a seat,” she says and sets about ripping the remnants of Lexa’s shirt into a makeshift sling, tying it securely behind Lexa’s neck.

Clarke's eyes flick over Lexa’s naked form, finding herself far too distracted. She shakes herself out of it, at least making an attempt at medical detachment. “Do you have a spare shirt around here?"

An answering nod towards a chest at the foot of the bed. Clarke rifles through it until she finds a loose-fitting dark garment. Lexa doesn’t put up any resistance as Clarke helps her into the shirt, careful as she pulls the material down over the sling.

It’s barely a second later before Lexa’s uninjured arm winds around Clarke’s waist, tugging her into sitting astride Lexa’s lap. A small noise of surprise gets lodged in Clarke’s throat. She steadies herself with a hand on Lexa’s clavicle, palm flat against the skin where the shirt gapes open. Lexa leans in to nose along her jawline, the damp heat of Lexa’s mouth following the same path. If Clarke tips her head to the side to allow easier access, it's purely by instinct, not a conscious decision.

“Lexa,” she says, perilously close to a moan when Lexa’s mouth fastens over an earlobe, when she runs the tip of her tongue over the outer edge of Clarke's ear. “I have to go."

“Stay,” Lexa says and Clarke shivers as much at the thick murmur of that voice as the hot breath that tickles her skin. “Send your mother ahead and follow at first light tomorrow. You have my word no harm will come to her; my warriors will protect her with their lives."

Pulling back an inch to look at Lexa’s face, Clarke’s sure the conflict raging within herself must show in her own expression. And it really, really doesn’t help her situation that Lexa's eyes are the lushest, most beautiful green, that her lips are rosy and pouty from kissing. Clarke just wants to sink into them again.

She threads her fingers into Lexa’s braids, watches as Lexa’s eyelashes flutter, lids sliding to half-mast. “You’re hurt,” Clarke says, hoping she sounds firm. “I don’t want to make your injury worse.” Of the myriad reasons this is a terrible idea, that’s probably the safest one to dwell upon.

“You won’t.” That tiny half smile curves Lexa’s mouth again. “I don't need to use my hands."

Clarke flushes hard at the implication, avoids that heated stare. “Lexa, I’m—“ She sucks in a quiet breath, lets it out in a rush. “I’m… dirty.” She hasn’t bathed properly for days beyond running a damp cloth under her armpits and between her legs and the idea of Lexa seeing her, putting that smirking mouth on her…

“I don’t care,” Lexa says, brushing her lips down Clarke’s throat. The light pressure has her squirming in Lexa’s lap, fingers tightening in Lexa’s hair. Lexa mouths at the tendon of her neck, down to the edge of the collarbone that peeks from Clarke's henley. She sucks at the skin there, not hard enough to bring a bruise to the surface but enough to cause a low tug of arousal in Clarke’s belly, to make her hips roll forward slightly. “If it would make you more comfortable you could bathe first."

A soak in the tub does sound pretty amazing right now. Clarke’s almost forgotten what it’s like to be clean and she’s dying to wash her hair. But—

God. She’s being so selfish.

When she thinks about what Bellamy and Lincoln must be going through, risking their lives to execute the plan, and she’s here thinking about a warm bath? Imagining what’s going to happen afterwards when there’s only a thin towel separating her naked body from Lexa’s, when she’s laid out on the furs, arching, thighs closing around Lexa’s ears...

_Fuck._

She shakes her head, loosens her grip on Lexa’s hair to push gently at her shoulder. To put some space between them. She can’t think, can’t breathe with Lexa’s mouth on her, with those hungry eyes swallowing her up.

“I have to go. I’m sorry.” Clarke says, with more determination than she feels. “Bellamy—"

“Needs you. So you’ve said.” Lexa’s gaze cools by degrees. She sounds sour. Jealous? The idea of it makes Clarke’s head spin.

“It isn’t like—“ Clarke stops herself. She doesn’t owe any sort of explanation. “My people are my first priority."

Lexa nods, an infinitesimally small rise and fall of her chin. Jaw clenched, lips thinning. “As are mine."

She drops her arm from Clarke’s waist. It leaves Clarke strangely bereft in a way she doesn’t understand. She peers down into Lexa’s face, finds her expression closed off. Carefully blank. As if she’s entirely unaffected by Clarke being in her lap or Clarke's hand still clutching at the fabric of her shirt.

“Lexa, I—"

There’s a commotion at the entrance. Raised voices. Gruff. Then a feminine one that Clarke instantly recognises as her mom’s. “I know she’s in there. I want to speak to my daughter. Let me through."

Clarke heaves an exasperated sigh. Their time is up and everything seems messier, more complicated than it was a half hour ago. “Could we talk about this later? Please.”

Lexa stares at her, mossy green eyes shifting slowly over Clarke’s face, as if she’s searching for some clue or answer to a question Clarke isn’t privy to. Whatever she finds there must be convincing enough because Lexa gives a slow, shallow nod.

“Your timing couldn’t be worse, you know?” Clarke says drily, a last ditch attempt to ease the tension between them.

The corner of Lexa’s mouth twitches, a pale ghost of a smile. “Time has never been on my side, Clarke."

There’s something so melancholic about Lexa’s words, the dull, sombre gleam in her eyes, that it makes Clarke’s chest feel tight. _Costia_ ; she has to be talking about Costia. Clarke has so many questions clamouring on her tongue but Lexa guards her secrets like she guards her emotions. And she wants to fix this, not spoil it any further by dredging up Lexa’s dead lover.

So she runs her thumb along the high slope of Lexa’s cheekbone before leaning in to bring their mouths together again. Makes the kiss count because who knows when they’ll have the opportunity again? Does just enough to have Lexa’s breath coming in quick, soft bursts against her lips. By the time Clarke pulls back Lexa’s ears are tipped with pink; her eyes, clouded by lust, are half shut, pupils blown wide.

It takes all of Clarke’s resolve to lift herself off Lexa’s lap. Fortunately, she manages to put a few steps between them before her mom strides through the tent flap, shaking off the grip of one of the guards.

Lexa blinks, quickly composing her expression. “Allow Abby of the Sky People to pass."

Abby glares at the guard before inclining her head at Lexa in stiff deference. “Commander. Clarke, we can’t delay any longer."

“I know, mom. Lexa and I were just discussing… things. Strategising.” Clarke purposefully doesn’t meet Lexa’s eyes. She runs a hand through her slightly dishevelled hair. Wets her bottom lip. Hopes her mom doesn’t notice the colour high on her cheeks.

Abby’s gaze swings between them. Narrows almost imperceptibly after a beat. “Well. We should get going. We have a half day’s ride ahead of us."

Clarke nods and follows after her mom. Pauses at the entrance to glance over her shoulder, only to find Lexa quite obviously staring at her ass, bottom lip pulled between her teeth. A wry smile tugs at Clarke’s mouth, even as she tries to sound stern. “Eyes up, Commander."

The look Lexa levels her with then, darkened eyes boring into her very being, almost stops Clarke’s heart. For a hot second she thinks about calling out to her mom and telling her to go on ahead without her. But she can’t. She _can’t_. Bellamy. Her friends. She has to see this plan through. Once the dust settles...

“May we meet again."

Lexa presses her lips together then, “Klir soujon, Klark kom Skaikru."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make this more smutty but, honestly, Finn's only been dust for three days and it seemed too soon for Clarke to be hopping on Lexa's fingers. That said, if we can suspend our disbelief about a mutant gorilla rampaging around the woods near Tondc...


	8. Hideaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: what do you think it would have been like if Clexa had a LDR when Clarke went to handle the skairats and broker better peace as the 13th clan? Imagine dirty hookups in between Polis and Arkadia in some grounder version of a seedy motel.
> 
> (It's not a seedy motel, it's more of a love shack in the wilderness.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this pure filth was written in celebration of ProjektFealty's upcoming Clexa visual novel, Horizon (although the two stories are unrelated).
> 
> Go check it out and give them your support, because they've been working extremely hard on it for many months: https://www.projektfealty.org/
> 
> Huge thanks to my beta Clexacloneclub and to orangeyouglad8 for reading over too.

“You’re late.”  
  
“I couldn’t get away sooner,” Clarke mutters, loosening the laces of her mud-caked boots. She sets them beside the door, next to the other pair. Wipes her palms on her travel pants—although they’re no less splattered with dirt—and eyes the chipped porcelain bathtub in front of the lit fireplace with envy.  
  
“I got stuck fending off questions during the Council meeting this morning.” Clarke rolls her eyes at the memory while she shirks off the satchel slung across her chest and approaches the washbasin in the corner. The water is cold but she scrubs her hands clean. “My mom’s getting suspicious about all these ‘diplomatic missions’.”  
  
“Do you think it’s any easier for me, Clarke?”  
  
Aside from the sharp tone, she can read Lexa’s sour mood a mile off. How her jaw works, a muscle pulled taut in her cheek; the tension that wafts from her, posture rigid. But, more than that, it’s the pointed absence of certain things: the long coat, pauldron and sash that are already draped over the back of the chair beside the bed. Even the little brass wheel stuck between her eyebrows is gone.  
  
Lexa _knows_ how much Clarke likes to remove these items herself, the act of shedding the Commander’s regalia as much a symbolic gesture as a sensual one. It’s an intrinsic part of their ritual; something that Clarke has come to crave. For Lexa to bypass it feels like a punishment.  
  
It stokes Clarke’s own frustration.  
  
She blows out a harsh breath and turns away from the eyes boring into her. Grabs a nearby rag to dry off her hands and tosses it down, making straight for her boots by the door. “Well, if you’re just going to be a brat maybe I should go.”  
  
Lexa’s long strides eat up the distance between them in seconds. She grabs Clarke’s wrist, whirling her around with enough momentum that their bodies collide.  
  
Clarke frowns and shakes off the hold, eyes darting between Lexa’s own. Something dark flashes in those stormy green depths and Clarke tries to tamp down on the thrill that rushes through her, because there’s something undeniably alluring about Lexa in this brooding state.  
  
“You were supposed to be here at midday.”  
  
“I _told_ you—”  
  
“I was worried.”  
  
The admission pierces the thick air between them.  
  
Lexa’s expression shutters, lips parting before she clamps them shut again. She lifts her chin, straightens her spine. Composed once more. It might be convincing to anyone not intimately acquainted with the tiny subtleties of Lexa’s emotions but Clarke recognises the gleam of vulnerability in those eyes. And it isn’t hard to imagine Lexa growing increasingly restless while she waited, pacing and prowling around the cabin like a caged animal, dark thoughts and worst case scenarios feeding her agitation.  
  
Clarke’s ire melts away.  
  
She drifts closer. Presses her curves against Lexa, gratified by the visible bob of Lexa’s throat as she swallows, the heavy, hazy stare that drops to her mouth, the slow blink before Lexa brings darkened eyes up to lock onto Clarke’s once more.  
  
The sight of dilated pupils shakes Clarke.  
  
Heat pools at the juncture of her thighs.  
  
“Don’t be,” Clarke says, huskier, chancing a touch to Lexa’s sleeve, running her hand down until she reaches Lexa’s. Feeling Lexa’s physical response, the small ripple that passes through her body when Clarke slots their fingers together. “If I can handle your grumpiness I can handle anything.”  
  
Lexa gives a sullen look, and Clarke wants to kiss the pout from her lips.  
  
“I’m not grumpy.” Off Clarke’s arched eyebrow, Lexa lets out a small exasperated sigh and says quietly, “It’s been three weeks.”  
  
Clarke brings their joined hands to her lips. Dots kisses across each of Lexa’s knuckles. She smirks into it. “Is this your roundabout way of saying you missed me?”  
  
Long fingers tighten around her own before Lexa pulls free. A thumb runs along the edge of Clarke’s jaw, sweeps over her cheek, before Lexa fits her palm behind Clarke’s neck, under the fall of her hair. Tangling in the strands that cling to her skin, damp from sweat and the light drizzle during the hike.  
  
With the tiniest bit of pressure Lexa tugs her even closer, other hand going to Clarke’s waist. There isn’t an inch of space between them, bodies flush from thigh to hip to breast, and Lexa’s warm breath gusts over Clarke’s top lip.  
  
Clarke grips at Lexa’s elbows. She’s wearing that shirt Clarke loves, the lacy one with the v neck that exposes the slope of collarbones and the curve of bare shoulders. And she knows exactly how the garment is constructed to get Lexa out of it quickly. She itches to do just that.  
  
“Sha,” Lexa murmurs, pressing a series of slow, gentle kisses over Clarke’s jaw until her lips graze the hinge. “Ai mema yu we. Bilaik san mema rein we.”  
  
Clarke feels the little smile tucked against her jaw and it’s more than she can stand. It’s the sentiment—Lexa is _such_ a secret cornball—as much as the Trigedasleng that has her grabbing for Lexa’s cheeks to guide their mouths together, the last reserve of her patience evaporating.  
  
Because she’s missed Lexa, too. So much.  
  
The cancellation of their last two rendezvous meant she’s had to make do with her own hand and a vivid imagination. And those nocturnal fantasies pale in comparison to the girl standing in front of her now. The reality of Lexa’s touch after weeks without it is overwhelming; the pressure of callused fingertips at the nape of her neck, the soft give of Lexa’s mouth slanting against hers; the scent of Lexa, the tang of leather and earth, the faint fragrance of wildflowers that clings to Lexa’s hair.  
  
Clarke kisses harder, communicating just how much she’s been longing for this, for Lexa. She licks over the lush fullness of Lexa’s bottom lip, pleased when Lexa’s breath catches and she opens her mouth to the sweep of tongue.  
  
Clarke’s distantly aware of the jacket being pushed from her shoulders. Cooperates when Lexa tugs the hem of the henley up her torso, separating only to pull the item up and off, before their lips reconnect.  
  
Palms slide up the slope of Clarke’s ribs, Lexa confident as she reaches around for the clasp of Clarke’s bra. Released with a pinch, the threadbare cotton sags, and Clarke’s breasts spill free. Lexa wastes no time in peeling the straps down Clarke’s arms, never once breaking the kiss as she tosses the bra away. Her hands find their immediate goal, cupping Clarke’s tits, taking a firm hold and kneading at the abundance of pebbled flesh. Thumbs brush over Clarke’s nipples and she shivers, tilting her head and angling into a deeper, wetter kiss. Dipping into Lexa once more, savouring the quiet groan it earns.  
  
Clarke works a hand through Lexa’s braids while she re-familiarises herself with the contours of Lexa’s mouth, exploring the heated spaces and taking her fill of Lexa’s taste.  
  
They drift backwards, moving blindly across the room until Lexa bumps up against the bed. Her quiet gasp of surprise makes Clarke smile and they finally draw apart to look at one another.  
  
She feels drunk on their heavy kisses, unable to focus on anything but the soft, swollen bruise of Lexa’s mouth, the pitch dark of half-lidded eyes, the way Lexa stares, as if she’s dying of thirst and Clarke’s an oasis of crystal clear water.  
  
“Lie back.” Clarke’s voice is a raspy, breathless husk.  
  
Lexa complies without question, gazing up at Clarke with that same mixture of lust and awe and hope that’s characterised their every encounter since they parted ways in Polis that sun-drenched afternoon months ago. Maybe someday Lexa will believe she deserves this but, until then, Clarke’s going to take every opportunity to convince Lexa she’s worthy of being wanted and loved.  
  
“You’re so beautiful,” Clarke says, drinking in the splay of Lexa’s hair over the furs, the graceful line of her neck, the gentle heave of her chest, those collarbones Clarke wants to bite just to hear the sharp intake of breath.  
  
She drops to her knees and hooks her fingers behind Lexa’s, dragging Lexa closer to the edge of the bed. Propped on her elbows, Lexa watches, dark lashes fluttering, lips parting on a silent sound when Clarke loosens the straps on Lexa’s thighs and opens the button at her waistband. It takes some wiggling to get Lexa out of the tight pants, and Clarke doesn’t hesitate to push Lexa’s legs apart, insinuating herself into the space between.  
  
From this angle Clarke has a clear view of the very discernible wet patch saturating Lexa’s underwear and it sends a white hot spike of desire straight between her thighs.  
  
“God, Lexa,” she says in a rough whisper.  
  
“Three weeks, Clarke.”  
  
As if she needs the reminder.  
  
“Point taken.”  
  
Another time she might’ve been in the mood to tease but she feels the urgency just as keenly as Lexa apparently does.  
  
So she leans in, mouthing at the soft skin of Lexa’s inner thigh, sucking kisses into the lean muscle above the frayed waistband of the shorts that sit low on Lexa’s hips, smirking at the way Lexa’s stomach tenses, how her pelvis tilts up almost imperceptibly, the whimper that escapes her throat. All reactions Clarke’s been daydreaming about since their last meeting here.  
  
And she can’t wait, not when Lexa’s looking at her like this. As if she might shatter if Clarke doesn’t do something soon.  
  
She keeps her eyes locked on Lexa’s while she slides the shorts down. Only once she’s unhooked them from Lexa’s feet does Clarke let her gaze zero in. That first glimpse pulls an involuntary noise from her. She wraps her hands around Lexa’s ankles and coaxes her knees up and apart. Spreading her wide. Eyes feasting on Lexa glistening and so, so ready for Clarke.  
  
She wets her lips in anticipation.  
  
“Clarke.” A low plea.  
  
The instant Clarke makes contact, Lexa lifts her hips off the furs, rolling into Clarke’s open mouth with a bitten off, “Jok!”  
  
And Clarke loves it, cheeks warming as she laps through the slick, gathering up as much as possible with the flat of her tongue. She can't get enough of Lexa’s flavour, the musk of her. Immersed and breathing it all in like it could sustain her. She begins slow, mapping every inch with the same diligence she afforded Lexa’s mouth. She wants to take her time, but before long the jog of hips and the choked sounds of pleasure fuel Clarke’s desire for more.  
  
She licks at Lexa, varying the speed and pressure, not allowing her to settle into a rhythm, returning again and again to swirl into the spill from her entrance. Every time Clarke dips a little further inside, Lexa jerks and twitches beneath her. And whenever Clarke veers away to drag her tongue over less sensitive areas, Lexa whines.  
  
Clarke has to smother her smug little smile against Lexa’s skin but she doesn’t give in. Not straight away.  
  
She drops kisses along the swollen, reddened outer labia. The soft, close-clipped dusting of hair tickles her nostrils and Lexa squirms underneath her. Clarke releases her hold on Lexa’s ankles and slides her palms under Lexa’s ass, squeezing around the flesh. Given how otherwise coltish and wiry Lexa’s is, her tight globular butt is an ongoing marvel for Clarke and she just wants to get her hands on it whenever she can.  
  
Maybe she gets slightly carried away with her groping because Lexa’s desperate “Beja, Klark” slices through Clarke’s awareness.  
  
Their eyes meet over the length of Lexa’s body and the sheer want etched in Lexa’s expression nearly steals the breath from Clarke’s lungs.  
  
“What, Lexa?” she asks thickly, keeping her gaze fixed on Lexa’s while she scatters more open-mouthed kisses over the crease of Lexa’s thigh and across the rise of her pubic bone. “Tell me what you want me to do.”  
  
Lexa shivers at the words, at the breath fanning over her skin and the gentle suction of Clarke’s lips. Dark eyes rolling back when Clarke kisses lower, swiping her tongue around the swollen tip of Lexa’s clit before retreating.  
  
Worth it for the way Lexa bucks, chasing the fleeting touch. The “Klark” gritted out through her clenched teeth.  
  
“Tel ai op, Leksa.”  
  
Clarke lets her top lip graze the hard little bundle and it’s enough for Lexa to shudder out, “Yu.” She rewards Lexa with another barely-there lick, eliciting a high gasp. “Tiya ai. Beja.”  
  
It’s with a small sense of triumph that Clarke firms her tongue and starts to slide through Lexa’s inner folds with purpose, working from the bottom up and swirling around her clit on every pass.  
  
Clarke dips lower, licking into Lexa, plunging as deep as she’s able to and revelling in the way Lexa flops flat on her back, grabbing fistfuls of the furs. A near constant stream of whimpers and soft groans and the occasional curse in Trigedasleng fill the air, and it makes Clarke’s chest inflate with pride that she’s the only one to reduce the always buttoned-up Heda to a swearing, writhing mess.  
  
And Clarke is relentless, even when her jaw begins to grow numb. She uses the grip on Lexa’s ass to maintain the pace, pulling Lexa down on her tongue instead of thrusting into her.  
  
Soon Lexa relinquishes her hold on the furs, weaving fingers into Clarke’s hair. Other hand sliding down her stomach to reach between her legs, rubbing tight circles around her own clit.  
  
Within moments Clarke feels the quickening that goes through Lexa. The shudder that starts small and builds and builds until it’s a full body quake. Thighs quivering and abdominals jumping and the sudden wail that’s torn from Lexa’s throat before she freezes. Locking up for the span of a few heart-stopping seconds while she clenches hard around Clarke’s tongue and a fresh gush of wetness spills over Clarke’s chin.  
  
Clarke groans, nails digging into the firmness of Lexa’s ass, and it only makes Lexa spasm again. Hips rolling, jerking, eeking out the last remnants of her orgasm. Releasing a tremulous sigh when Clarke slips out and drags the broad flat of her tongue up through the wetness.  
  
The fingers in Clarke’s hair twist and tug, urging, and she climbs over Lexa’s body, fitting her hips against the cradle of Lexa’s. Stomachs and chests align as Lexa pulls Clarke down for a kiss. It turns dirty quickly, Lexa eager for the taste of herself on Clarke’s lips. She wedges a hand between them, fumbling with the fastenings of Clarke’s pants, frustration leaking out in a muffled grunt.  
  
Smiling into the kiss, Clarke supports her weight on her arms to give Lexa enough room to work the button and zipper. They both gasp when slender fingers slip under Clarke’s shorts and glide easily through her. It causes her elbows to wobble and she locks them at her sides, tilting her pelvis forward to chase the touch.  
  
She makes a tiny noise of complaint when Lexa withdraws, only to swallow the objection once her pants and underwear are shoved down and Lexa cups her between the legs. Shamelessly, Clarke grinds into the heel of Lexa’s hand. Already she feels flushed and wound so tight, pressure coiled in the pit of her stomach thanks to Lexa and the wet pulsing heat surrounding her tongue as Lexa came.  
  
She’s close.  
  
And Lexa knows it, too.  
  
She can tell by the way Lexa’s kisses grow languid, like she’s trying to calm the fever that rages in Clarke’s body, trying to prolong the moment. But, right now, Clarke just wants to be fucked by Lexa. _Needs_ it.  
  
A soft growl rumbles up her chest and she drags her mouth away to make her impatience known. But the wonder and bliss and open affection held in Lexa’s expression gives her pause. Leaves her breathless. Squeezes tight around her heart. Whatever she was going to say gets lodged in her throat. Because that soft, yearning look in Lexa’s eyes makes Clarke briefly consider barricading them in this cabin for the rest of their days, their people and respective duties be damned.  
  
(In her heart Clarke knows that’s a selfish delusion but she entertains it for a second.)  
  
Lexa’s free hand brushes Clarke’s temple, sweeping a few strands of hair behind her ear. Touching Clarke as though she’s the most precious thing.  
  
“Niron,” Lexa whispers.  
  
And Clarke has to kiss her again. Can’t bear for their lips to be separated when a rush of love, vast and unstoppable, surges through her veins.  
  
“Please,” she pants out between kisses, hot breath mingling with Lexa’s. She pulls back only to readjust, to find a more perfect angle. “I want you. God, I want you.”  
  
Lexa mouth moves more fiercely against her own, spurred by the desperation of Clarke’s words. Clarke yields to it readily, greedily, lips parting to admit the slide of Lexa’s tongue. The hand cupping her shifts, and she barely has time to register the movement before Lexa sinks inside. Two fingers sliding knuckle deep.  
  
“Fuck, yes,” Clarke groans into the slice of air between them, driving her pelvis down to meet the first thrust and the next and the next. Soon establishing a rhythm. Breath hitching on every pump of Lexa’s hand. Slick sounds and Lexa’s little grunts of exertion and the ancient bedframe creaking beneath them. Their kisses grow messier by the second, a formless glide of lips and humid, heavy breathing.  
  
By the time Lexa’s thumb draws patterns over her clit, Clarke is teetering on the brink. Slim digits slam into her, the tips curling as they retreat, and she struggles to control the jerky motion of her hips.  
  
Until she’s _there_. Climax rushing up on her before she knows it, hitting her swift and hard.  
  
She cries out, every muscle in her body pulling taut. Biceps trembling, spine arching.  
  
Lexa doesn’t stop. She keeps rubbing at that spot inside, keeps that perfect friction going even while Clarke shudders and shakes until her arms eventually give out.  
  
She collapses against Lexa’s chest with a gasp, buries her nose in the crook of Lexa’s neck, trapping Lexa’s wrist awkwardly between them. Lexa makes no complaint. She presses her lips to the side of Clarke’s head. The fingertips of Lexa’s other hand trail up and down Clarke’s back, raising goosebumps in their wake. Sweat cools on her nape and at the base of her spine, and she shivers into the touch.  
  
She turns her face inwards, nuzzling at Lexa’s throat, feeling the throb of Lexa’s pulse against her parted lips. Clarke sucks a light kiss there, not enough pressure to bring a bruise to the surface but enough to be felt, to provoke a low noise from Lexa. An arm wraps around Clarke’s waist. Within an instant she’s being flipped over, and the softness of the furs feels decadent against her bare skin.  
  
Braced above her, Lexa looks almost primal. Eyes dark. Hair mussed and half falling out of the intricate braids. Mouth swollen and wet and so enticing that Clarke has to pull her down to meet waiting lips.  
  
She loses herself in the contact for long minutes, subtly directing the kiss with a hand at Lexa’s jaw. Keeping her close and connected, keeping her present in this moment. Waiting before she nudges a knee between Lexa’s legs. She feels more than hears Lexa’s quick inhale when her thigh brushes against Lexa’s wetness. Only to suck in a breath herself when Lexa mirrors the action.  
  
Suddenly it’s offensive to Clarke that Lexa’s still wearing that shirt because she needs Lexa out of it _now_. Burns to feel uninterrupted skin on skin.  
  
She plucks at the hem. “Off. Take this off.”  
  
Lexa only nods, distracted, tipping her head to deepen the kiss, and Clarke releases a soft, breathless laugh around it. She pushes at Lexa’s shoulders. Delights in the tiny pout that pulls at Lexa’s bottom lip. Leans in to suck it between her own, scraping her teeth over the soft swell of it.  
  
Between them they manage to get Lexa out of her shirt with minimum fuss, aside from Lexa’s braids getting snagged on the lace for a second. Fortunately Lexa had the foresight not to bother with a bra and Clarke couldn’t be happier at the unimpeded sight of Lexa’s bare breasts, small and pert and perfect as they are.  
  
She dips her head to capture a hard nipple in her mouth, running her tongue around the outside edge then narrowing in to flick at the tip. Palming at the other, rolling the stiff peak between her fingers. Switching between the two until Lexa’s lower body is rocking into Clarke’s with each pull of her lips.  
  
The wet drag of Lexa’s cunt against her thigh makes Clarke moan into Lexa’s skin. She mouths over Lexa’s chest, licking at the sweat sprouting on her clavicle, planting hot kisses up her neck until she reaches the underside of Lexa’s jaw. She nibbles at the sharp edge, teasing, before Lexa catches her in another kiss. Hard. Demanding. Taking control in a way that leaves Clarke panting heavily.  
  
They move together, hips picking up pace. Clarke grabs onto Lexa’s ass, using that hold to pull Lexa’s body tighter against her own, to adjust the position slightly. For Lexa’s thigh to rub her clit just so on every surge. And Clarke grinds into it fast, swivelling her hips in tight circles.  
  
Close, so close.  
  
She can tell Lexa is too by the way her rhythm stutters, the soft sounds that pitch higher, how her kisses turn sloppier.  
  
It’s a race to the finish.  
  
Clarke is the first to stiffen, nails digging into the flesh beneath her splayed fingers. Within seconds Lexa follows her over the edge, their groans stifled by the seal of their mouths.  
  
Their undulations gradually slow to nothing while they ride out the tremors.  
  
In the sweaty afterglow they lay entwined, trading lazy kisses, idle hands stroking over skin. Legs tangled amongst the rumpled furs, Clarke’s arms looped around deceptively thin shoulders. Neither willing to move apart as the shadows lengthen across the cabin floor and the fire burns down to embers.  
  
“I have to leave soon,” Clarke mumbles into the crease where neck meets shoulder, but she makes no attempt to extricate herself from Lexa’s embrace.  
  
She closes her eyes, and Lexa cards her fingers through Clarke’s hair, sifting through the strands and gently scratching at her scalp. It’s soothing, sends pleasant little ripples of sensation down Clarke’s spine, and it’s this closeness, this quiet intimacy that’s she’s missed most of all.  
  
These moments where she and Lexa can just _be_.  
  
Together.  
  
No world beyond the sanctuary of this bed and these four walls.  
  
Here they’re simply two girls enraptured by one another, brimming with hope and possibility and the promise of someday.  
  
Clarke clutches at Lexa, burrows further into that favourite patch of skin, as if she could only expedite that future by holding Lexa a little tighter.  
  
She sighs. “I wish…”  
  
“What?”  
  
When Clarke doesn’t respond, Lexa’s fingers still.  
  
“Clarke.”  
  
Reluctantly she pulls back to peer into Lexa’s face. She feels like those green eyes could pierce right through her. There’s nowhere to hide from that all-seeing stare.  
  
“I just wish we could have more.” Clarke gives a small smile. “The sneaking around and clandestine meetings have their appeal, don’t get me wrong.”  
  
Lexa matches that faint smile with one of her own.  
  
“But I want this—you—every day.”  
  
A kiss is dusted over Clarke’s cheek, beside the corner of her mouth.  
  
“Then we might never make it out of bed,” Lexa says, low and teasing. And Clarke thrills to this seldom seen mischievous side. “Who would lead our people?”  
  
“Maybe Heda could learn to delegate.”  
  
Lexa’s eyes hold a distinct glow of amusement. “Maybe I could.”  
  
The arm wrapped loosely around her waist gives a light squeeze.  
  
“In the meantime… I’m due to visit the western clans next month to renegotiate trade terms.” Before Clarke’s answering frown has a chance to settle, Lexa continues, “Skaikru would greatly benefit from sending a representative to accompany me. To foster closer relations among the Coalition.”  
  
The significant look Lexa gives her isn’t lost on Clarke. She searches Lexa’s expression, her heart thudding faster at the implications. “How long would we be away?”  
  
“Fifteen days. Perhaps longer. Ingranrona Kru are a fiercely proud clan who take their hospitality very seriously.” Lexa rolls her eyes with such subtlety that Clarke nearly misses it. “Two years ago a skirmish broke out because the delegate from Trishana Kru left on the first day of feasting after the talks were concluded.”  
  
Clarke smirks. “Well, we wouldn’t want to offend anyone.”  
  
She reaches for Lexa’s face, thumbs tracing high cheekbones, the sharp, sculpted line of Lexa’s jaw, the shape of those full lips. The thought of spending two whole weeks together is enough to offset the dread of breaking the news to her mom and the inevitable arguments that will follow. Clarke’s under no illusion that they’ll be subjected to heavy scrutiny during the negotiations, but the nights—the nights will be all their own.  
  
“You’ll have to give me a primer on their cultural traditions. I don’t want to end up accidentally engaged by promising a truckload of medical supplies or something.”  
  
Lexa blinks. “Engaged?”  
  
“Betrothed. Um… aftaim houmon.”  
  
“Oh.” Lexa pauses. Then, after a beat, “To avoid any misunderstandings, we should make it clear you’re already taken.”  
  
The unexpected turn the conversation has taken causes something to flutter wildly in Clarke’s stomach. Teeth sink into her bottom lip, an attempt to suppress the smile that threatens to split her cheeks. She cocks one eyebrow. “Am I?”  
  
Lexa gives a long, stern look. And Clarke can’t prevent the quiet laugh that finally leaks out.  
  
“I am,” Clarke concedes, aware that she must have a stupid grin on her face by now. She doesn’t care. Not when joy sings through her veins. “Although, maybe I need a reminder.”  
  
Before she knows it, she’s on her back, their breasts and stomachs sliding together. The graze of hard nipples and the devilish glint in Lexa’s dark eyes light a fire beneath her skin. Rekindled desire pulses low and heavy between Clarke’s legs.  
  
Two weeks of this might be the death of her.  



	9. mouth to mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Clarke had changed her mind about “not yet” following the 2x14 kiss?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by all the Open Coat Lexa gifs on Tumblr. This was only supposed to be a drabble, then it turned into 3000 words of thirst… Oops.

For one selfish minute, Clarke kisses Lexa back.

Takes control.

Opens her mouth and presses her lips more fully against the pouty give of Lexa’s.

Because Lexa is beautiful and she has the softest, sweetest lips of anyone Clarke has ever kissed; girl or boy.

Because it hadn’t occurred to Clarke that this was even a possibility, until Lexa’s face was closing in and a hand slid against her jaw.

Because, for this one minute, Clarke doesn’t have to think about the weight of responsibility that’s crushing down on her from all sides—a burden Lexa _gets_ like no one else does.

So she empties her mind. Puts aside all thoughts of Bellamy and the Mountain, war strategies and tenuous alliances; the way her mom and Raven and Octavia look at her with distrust, always criticising, always second guessing her decisions. When she’s _trying_. Doing her level best to keep her people together and alive in impossible circumstances.

She allows herself to take solace in the tentative slide of their mouths, the careful grip of Lexa’s fingers beneath her ear. Without conscious thought her own hand cups the ball of Lexa’s elbow, keeping her here, holding her in place.

Lexa, whose reserve of patience is vast. She hardly moves at all, letting Clarke dictate the pace and never asking for more, making no attempt to deepen the contact or pull Clarke closer.

In the end, it’s the slow, gentle nudge of Lexa’s nose as she tips her head to change the angle, the wholly unexpected tenderness of it, that jolts Clarke out of the kiss.

In the handful of seconds it takes for their lips to separate, for Lexa to blindly chase the retreat of Clarke’s mouth, the world comes rushing back.

Clarke pulls in a breath and presses her lips together. Glances down as she whispers, “I’m sorry. I—I’m not ready.”

When she looks up again it’s to catch Lexa’s heavy stare lingering on her mouth. Eyes dark and half lidded. Want written across her face. The sight of it pangs through Clarke, makes her heart thunder and her stomach swoop.

It’s a marvel how rapidly Lexa composes herself. How she pulls down her mask of impassivity, tucking the hurt away. Jaw set firm, head held high. As if it’s nothing.

Only the glassy sheen in her eyes gives her away.

And Clarke aches to see the softness replaced by steel as Lexa draws herself up.

Maybe that’s why she feels compelled to explain, to temper the sting of rejection.

“To be with anyone.”

She searches Lexa’s face.

Qualifies, “Not yet.”

Something small and muted and bittersweet shrouds Lexa’s expression. Sad resignation. She blinks, nods, the slightest rise and fall of her chin.

Clarke wants to say more, wants to secure some kind of assurance from Lexa that this won’t affect the accord they’ve built, but she doesn’t know how to broach it delicately.

“I should go,” is what she says instead. She hesitates. “Could we talk later?”

Lexa’s throat bobs. “If you wish.”

Her voice is measured except for a tiny, almost undetectable crack, and that’s what gets to Clarke more than anything.

With a tight smile she beats a hasty exit, anxious to escape because she can’t cope with seeing Lexa be so fucking stoic and respectful about it all, when Clarke knows if it was her she’d be quietly dying inside and hoping for the ground to swallow her up.

She makes it as far as the tent flap before something tugs at her, a buzzing at the back of her brain. A voice telling her that she can’t leave it like this, like a coward. Not when Lexa was brave enough to take a gamble.

Because the truth is that as soon as their lips connected, as Clarke pulled in a quick, surprised breath before she sank into the kiss, the pieces finally clicked into place.

_Your heart shows no sign of weakness._

_Not everyone, not you._

_I do trust you, Clarke._

The stares. How they’d thawed from cold and calculating to something altogether different. Guarded. At times exasperated, occasionally rattled and unsure, but always drawn to Clarke. Always observing. Lexa’s gaze following her across the encampment, finding her during tense summits around the war table, while the Grounder generals barely contained their hostility at the presence of a former enemy in their midst.

And Lexa made time for her. After-hours strategising alone in the privacy of the Commander’s tent—Lexa at ease, almost casual, with her coat open and the red sash removed, skin devoid of warpaint. Shared meals together, the angular planes of Lexa’s face softened by candlelight as they conversed long into the evening. The advice and leadership coaching and “you were born for this, same as me.”

Lexa gave her gifts: the padded jacket and pauldron Clarke now wears. It was Lexa who attached the clasp of the shoulder guard, standing so close that her breath dusted over Clarke’s cheek. Eyes glowing, pleased, once she stepped back. The subtle, almost invisible uptick of Lexa’s mouth as they took stock of each other.

At the time Clarke thought Lexa simply amused at a Sky Person playing dress up in Grounder clothing.

Now, filtered through the prism of this kiss, Clarke understands what she’d been too unaware, too preoccupied to notice before.

And the thought makes her stomach flip. It somersaults again when she pivots to see Lexa’s face tipped towards the roof; eyes shut, bottom lip sucked into her mouth. As if she’s trying to physically rein in some runaway emotion that Clarke knows she isn’t supposed to bear witness to.

She isn’t fully conscious of her feet propelling her forward until Lexa whirls at the sound of her approach.

For a second she thinks Lexa’s going to snarl at her to get out like she had earlier today, but Lexa remains rooted to the spot, wide eyes darting between Clarke’s own as she advances. She looks like she wants to flee, like she would give anything for the damn Pauna to come rampaging through the tent right about now.

If Clarke wasn’t so shaken herself she might laugh at the absurdity of the situation. The fearsome Heda, a warlord with a reputation for ruthlessness that precedes her, growing more intimidated as Clarke draws near.

“Clarke.”

There’s an edge to it, a desperate flash in Lexa’s stare. But Clarke’s never been one to heed a warning.

It’s as though she’s outside herself.

No other rational explanation for the way she grabs for Lexa’s cheeks, gaze raking over those _lips_ and up to green eyes made all the more vibrant by the black warpaint that surrounds them. Acting purely on impulse when she tugs Lexa into a kiss. Mouths open and hot breath spilling into the space between them.

“Clarke,” Lexa sighs and Clarke only swallows it, readjusts and presses her nose further into the crease of Lexa’s cheek. Dips her tongue inside, just a sample, a teasing flick along Lexa’s.

The sound that rumbles up Lexa’s chest thrills through Clarke, and the only thought running through her head is that she wants to hear it—be the cause of it—again.

The next breath Lexa expels against her lips is stuttered and shaky. “Clarke, you said…” she murmurs, the words smothered by another kiss. Hands seek out Clarke’s waist. Squeezing, gripping, bringing their bodies flush together. Lexa tries again. “You said—“

“Shhh.” Clarke nips at Lexa’s bottom lip. Soothes it with a slow lick, living for the soft growl it earns her, the flex of fingers at her sides.

She pulls back an inch, enough to study Lexa, taking in the smudged paint on her cheeks, the pink tips of Lexa’s little ears. Dark, dark eyes drag up from Clarke’s mouth and she’s certain the same hunger must be mirrored in her own expression.

She traces a thumb along a high cheekbone, down to the hinge of Lexa’s jaw. Completely entranced. Wishing she had paper and pencil to hand to capture the slope of that sculpted cheek.

“Can we just do this? For now. And after… we’ll see.”

( _After_. Assuming they manage to pull off this audacious plan and survive the assault on Mount Weather.)

And Clarke knows she’s muddying things, contradicting the statement she made less than five minutes ago. But she’s also eighteen and she might die tomorrow, and in the meantime there’s a gorgeous girl who wants to make out with her. It’s really not rocket science.

Lexa regards her for a long moment, and Clarke can practically see the internal debate, the war raging behind those eyes before Lexa nods.

This time they meet in the middle, and when their mouths collide it’s rougher, more urgent than before. It ignites a fire under Clarke’s skin, has her moaning huskily against Lexa’s parted lips.

Something seems to spark to life in Lexa at the noise. Assured, as she uses her hips to drive Clarke backwards until she bumps up against the hard edge of the war table, a reversal of this morning. Capitalising on Clarke’s soft gasp of surprise by sweeping her tongue into her open mouth, full and heavy. Pursuing the kiss with same singular focus and intensity she brings to everything she does.

God, yes, _this_ is the Commander. Nothing meek or hesitant about the way she claims Clarke’s mouth.

If it wasn’t for Lexa’s body pinning her, Clarke thinks she might buckle under this onslaught. So for her own self-respect she needs to wrestle back some control.

It’s how she finds herself working at the buckles of Lexa’s coat. Only to loosen a frustrated growl because _why_ are there so many straps and fastenings? Feeling a minor sense of triumph when she succeeds in getting the first buckle undone, then the others in short order. More gratified by the shuddery exhale Lexa releases once Clarke’s hands slip beneath the heavy fur-trimmed fabric to get to the soft cotton shirt below and the warmth that radiates through it.

Lexa tips her head the other way, the kiss turning slower but no less heated. When it breaks it’s only for them each to suck in a lungful of air.

Clarke uses the respite to let her eyes roam. Straying to the tops of Lexa’s breasts, the cleavage that peeks above the low scoop neck of the shirt. Watching the gentle heave of Lexa’s chest as she breathes quick and shallow.

It’s not that Clarke hasn’t noticed Lexa’s boobs before—because, yes, she has eyes—but it was all in the abstract. She wasn’t actively looking. But now they’re here in front of her and she can’t tear her gaze away. They look like a perfect handful, made to fit Clarke’s palms, and damn if she isn’t eager to prove that theory.

Her hands slide up Lexa’s torso, only for Lexa to capture her wrists, preventing Clarke from reaching her intended goal. She huffs a complaint and the answering stretch of Lexa’s smile is unlike any other Clarke has seen on her face. Carved into the apples of her cheeks, its radiance transforms her features, making her look even more beautiful than Clarke thought possible.

The gentle assertion of “not yet” seems like a fuzzy, distant memory when Lexa coaxes Clarke’s arms around her shoulders. When Lexa hooks her hands below Clarke’s ass to lift her up onto the table. When Lexa nudges into the space between Clarke’s thighs as if it’s her rightful place.

Every objection dies on Clarke’s tongue.

Because she just needs to kiss Lexa. Needs to taste those lips, that mouth, the breathy sigh Lexa gives as Clarke works one hand into the wild mane of braids and curls. As Lexa’s fingers seek purchase, splaying over the curves of Clarke’s hips, urging her tighter against Lexa’s body.

Arousal pools low and heavy and Clarke licks into Lexa in time with the slow roll of her pelvis. She relishes the little hitch of Lexa’s breath, how Lexa’s fingers squeeze harder and she angles deeper into the kiss.

Clarke loses all sense of time, attuned only to Lexa and the wet surge of their mouths, the soft hunger of Lexa’s lips moving against her own, the ebb and flow of the dull ache between her legs.

On some level it’s all too much, too fast, but she feels greedy for this contact, for Lexa, and she’ll take what she can get. (She might not get another chance.)

So Clarke doesn’t stop kissing Lexa. Not until they’re both panting heavily and she realises just how much she’s been grinding up on Lexa, evidenced by the damp cling of her underwear and the sweat that’s broken out on her nape and lower back.

Lexa, whose eyes are mostly black once Clarke drags her mouth away. Lips so plump and pink from their kisses that Clarke wants to dive in to sample them again. She looks wrecked in the best possible way and it makes Clarke’s chest inflate with pride that she’s the one responsible for reducing the Commander to this.

“Just so we’re clear, I’m not having sex with you,” Clarke says, and her voice sounds thick and raspy with lust to her own ears. “Not today.”

The warpaint does little to obscure the redness that floods Lexa’s cheeks. She swallows hard. Nods, “Okay.”

She dips her chin to make a move on Clarke again, but Clarke holds her off with a firm hand on Lexa’s clavicle. She’s sweating too. Skin hot and clammy beneath Clarke’s palm. She must be sweltering in that coat and, sexy as Lexa looks at this moment with it hanging open, Clarke wants it _off_.

“But maybe…” Clarke pauses to wet her lips and it doesn’t escape her attention how Lexa’s heavy gaze tracks the movement. “Maybe we’d be more comfortable continuing this over there.”

Clarke glances pointedly towards the pile of furs that cover Lexa’s bed in the corner of the tent. A second or two passes before Lexa gathers herself enough to follow Clarke’s line of sight. When she does, a sound gets trapped in her throat, before dark eyes flash back to Clarke’s face.

That look sears through Clarke, flares hot between her legs. With both hands she grabs for the furry collar of Lexa’s coat. Uses the leverage to haul Lexa in so she can attach her lips to Lexa’s jaw, her neck, sucking a haphazard trail down, tasting the salt of perspiration, breathing in the mixture of musky, earthy scents that are so much more overwhelming with Clarke’s nose buried in skin.

Lexa clutches at her, nails digging into Clarke’s hips while she works her mouth and tongue lower.

And the next thing Clarke knows she’s being unceremoniously scooped up. Carried across the tent. She groans desperately into Lexa’s throat. Because as lean and lanky as Lexa is, she’s _strong_ , and it’s thrilling how effortlessly she bears Clarke’s weight.

She’s only just begun winding her fingers into Lexa’s hair to guide their mouths back together, when there’s a commotion outside. Distant shouts of “heda” and Trigedasleng that Clarke doesn’t understand but assumes can only mean one thing.

The signal.

Bellamy did it.

They pause, staring at each other with wide eyes, harsh breath puffing against parted lips.

Lexa eases Clarke down and she wobbles a bit, swaying into Lexa’s body. She has to collect her scattered thoughts, force herself to shift back into leadership mode. Near impossible when all she can focus on is the lingering taste of Lexa on her tongue.

“Heda! Miya snap!”

The shouts are closer now, and it jolts Clarke out of her trance.

“Come on,” she mutters, turning away.

“Wait.” Lexa grips her forearm, pulling Clarke back around.

A deep frown etches itself into Clarke’s forehead. Because, seriously? Does Lexa really want to discuss whatever the fuck just happened between them _now_?

“Lexa, we don’t have time for—“

“You have warpaint on your face, Clarke.”

Somehow that flusters Clarke more than the fact they’ve spent much of the last God-knows-how-long with their tongues in each other’s mouths.

“Oh. Right.”

She blushes and looks away from Lexa’s little smirk, the glimmer of humour in green eyes. Only to startle when Lexa cups her jaw and uses a rag to clean the dark smudges off her nose and cheeks in gentle strokes.

Clarke holds her breath for the duration, heart beating a staccato rhythm, while Lexa’s soft gaze moves over her face. It’s almost unbearably intimate, and Clarke’s torn between wanting to prolong the contact and shaking off Lexa’s grasp.

“All done,” Lexa whispers after a moment.

Clarke’s eyes drift to Lexa’s throat, to the telltale streaks that mar her skin.

“You have some too. Here.”

She runs her finger down the side of Lexa’s neck. Feels the shiver the touch elicits, like a current sparking between them.

It seems as if the space between them shrinks. Both leaning incrementally closer. Until Clarke catches herself at the last second, before the tent flap is flung open and one of the Trikru scouts strides through, his breathing laboured from running.

“Heda, forgive my intrusion, but the signal.”

The affection in Lexa’s expression vanishes in an instant. She steps around Clarke, sparing only a sideways glance, but it’s enough to communicate a multitude of unspoken things: regret at the interruption, a promise of _later_ and _trust me_ and _we do this together_.

“Take a message to Polis,” Lexa tells the scout as they jog outside, Clarke hot on their heels. “Inform Titus that we march on the Mountain and to make his preparations, should we fail.”

“Sha, Heda.”

He peels away, charging off in the direction of the horses.

She and Clarke skid to a stop, watching as another flare shoots across the sky.

The enormity of what they’re about to do hits Clarke square in the chest, the wriggle of fear twisting itself into a hard knot in her stomach, but Lexa looks energised by the imminent prospect of battle. 

_Jus drein jus daun_. 

Eyes lit and eager, she holds Clarke’s stare. “Now we fight.”

Clarke’s answer is a grim nod.


	10. wait no more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grumpy ball of rage Clarke Griffin has a bone to pick with the Commander, because they haven’t been, well, boning… (Post 307)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted for Day 7 of Clexaweek2018: free day.
> 
> Thanks to BetaKru once again!

With a determined gait and a full head of steam, Clarke barges through the double doors. 

She doesn’t think twice about shouldering her way past the guards and making a beeline for the dais and Lexa. 

Lexa, who for a fraction of a second looks afraid of this tornado that’s blown into her throne room. Clarke sees it in the wide-eyed blink and the subtle parting of Lexa’s lips, the visible bob of her throat as she swallows before her expression smooths out, imperious once more. As if someone storming into the Commander’s sanctum unannounced is no big deal. 

(People have certainly been punished for less.) 

“Ambassador,” Lexa says without inflection. 

The cool detachment only stokes Clarke’s anger. 

She clenches her fists at her sides. 

Draws her frame up and squares her shoulders. 

Has barely lifted a foot to climb the first step when the world tilts and her legs are swept out from under her. She goes down hard. Skull cracking against the hard stone floor, the threadbare red carpet doing nothing to cushion her fall. 

Black spots dance across her vision and she tastes blood in her mouth. Before she can even comprehend what’s happening, the tips of two spears are trained on her jugular. 

Shock and fear slice through her as sharp as any blade, rendering her fury inert.  

As she stares up at the pair of burly warriors looming over her, winded, pain radiating through her shoulders and neck— _fuck_ , it hurts—she considers the possibility that _maybe_ she didn’t fully think this plan through. 

If she’d only slowed her roll it probably would’ve occurred to her that this—rash flouting of protocol from someone regarded with, at best, distrust and, at worst, outright hostility by the other clans—might just be misinterpreted by Heda’s personal guards as a hostile action. Not least because the tower is still on high alert, everyone jumpy and prone to go for their weapons; skewer first, ask questions later. 

Lexa’s up like a shot from the throne, and Clarke doesn’t miss the way her hand goes briefly to her side, the tiniest wince that flickers across her features. 

And amongst the tumult of emotions swirling inside her chest, Clarke feels the sharp pang of guilt, followed by a swell of concern before anger rises to the fore once again, fuelled by the indignity of her current position. 

All the same, the terse “Chil yu daun!” Lexa barks out pulls a relieved, shuttered breath from Clarke. Another, when the guards retreat to their positions at the flanks of the throne. 

She sits up with a grimace, rubbing gingerly at the ball of her left shoulder, the edge of her elbow. The ache across her backside tells her she’s going to have one hell of a bruise there come morning. She glares at each of the guards in turn to make her disgruntlement known. They only stare straight ahead, faces impassive. 

Without another word, Lexa descends the dais and offers a hand to Clarke. 

For two seconds, she debates knocking it away in a fit of spite. But she accepts, allowing Lexa to haul her upright. 

She isn’t expecting the sudden wave of dizziness, the rush of blood to the head that causes her to pitch forward, stumbling into Lexa’s body with a quiet grunt. 

A touch at the small of Clarke’s back steadies her. Gloved fingers tighten around her own, and she feels Lexa’s warm breath—sweetened, as always, by the tea Lexa had at breakfast—fan across her face. 

It’s the most prolonged physical contact they’ve had for days; weeks, even. Clarke closes her eyes, greedily absorbing every bit of it, letting go of the ire that drove her here, at least temporarily. 

When she opens her eyes again, it’s to find Lexa staring at her mouth. Looking at her with the kind of intensity that makes Clarke’s head spin for entirely different reasons. 

Her own gaze drops, lingering on the fullness of Lexa’s bottom lip. She’s suddenly assaulted by a sun-drenched memory of trapping it’s pouty give between her teeth, able to recall with crystal clarity the soft groan it had elicited. How the subsequent teasing flick of her tongue spurred Lexa into rolling them over in the furs... 

From the way Lexa’s eyes darken, growing lidded and hazy, Clarke wonders if she’s having the same recollection. 

The air around them becomes charged, heavy, and Clarke feels as if she can’t draw enough air into her lungs. 

They’ve been standing far too close, for far too long but neither make a move until a muscle in Lexa’s jaw twitches. 

“Gon we,” she says to the guards, not even sparing them a glance. Unable or unwilling to look away from Clarke’s lips. 

“Heda?” The larger of the two speaks up. He sounds reluctant.  

“Nau.” Almost a snarl and Clarke’s sure Lexa must’ve heard her small intake of breath if the quick sweep of those eyes over her face is any indication. 

The guards trudge out in single file without further comment. 

When the doors click shut, the tension breaks. 

Lexa whirls around so suddenly it almost gives Clarke whiplash. She retreats a small step as Lexa begins to pace, the tattered, dusty end of the sash dragging along the floor behind her. 

“Do you have a deathwish?” Lexa demands, incensed, eyes flashing in Clarke’s direction. “They could’ve killed you where you stood.” 

Clarke won’t be cowed. She folds her arms. “How else am I supposed to talk to you privately?” 

Lexa’s eye roll is so subtle Clarke almost misses it. 

“There are procedures, Ambassador. Make an appointment.” 

“Except you won’t see me, _Heda_ ,” Clarke retorts. “You’re too busy with council meetings and audiences and solving everyone’s problems but your own.” Lexa bristles and it feeds a small, petty part of Clarke. She presses the advantage. “Always dealing with some crisis or other that prevents you from being alone with me. Convenient, huh?” 

Lexa stops her pacing to stare. 

For the span of a few seconds they’re at a silent impasse. The only sounds being the crackle of the lit braziers and the faint bustle of the city beyond the balcony. 

But something shifts. 

The irritation in Lexa’s expression fades, replaced by an inscrutable blankness. Her politician's mask. She waits. Hands linked behind her back, stance as relaxed as Lexa ever allows herself to be within this chamber when she’s in full Commander garb. 

And, damn it, _no_ , Clarke’s not going to let Lexa do this to her again: pull the Heda card to ensure they stay at arm’s length. 

She isn’t going to pretend that she’s okay with the fact Lexa hasn’t made any attempt to touch her in weeks, despite the demure glances Lexa keeps sending her way. Lexa pressing her lips together and forcing her eyes away whenever their gazes clash, an awkward dance of flirtation that’s equal parts thrilling and frustrating and absurd. 

It’s not like Clarke hasn’t tried to take the initiative herself. Every attempt to crash Lexa’s meals or corner her after meetings failed. She even started to wear low-cut shirts just to provoke Lexa into making a move. An underhand tactic, admittedly, but she’s long past caring. Only, Lexa’s so fucking respectful, such a paragon of stoic restraint that she never stares at Clarke’s cleavage for more than a fleeting second. 

It’s maddening. 

Frankly, Clarke’s 100% done with it all. 

She’s had enough of Lexa’s self-imposed distance; of Lexa blowing hot and cold and leaving her in a state of perpetual confusion; of the doubt that’s begun to creep in about her decision to remain on this side of the blockade. Because being confined to the tower for her own ‘protection’, being constantly under guard, her every movement monitored, not seeing or speaking to Lexa without an ever-present chaperone of advisors or guards isn’t what Clarke left her people for. 

When she agreed to stay, accepting the offer of amnesty that Lexa assured her was merely a formality, she didn’t really know what to expect. Maybe she was being naive, but she thought she’d at least have the opportunity to get closer to Lexa. Actually _be_ together, even if that meant fitting their alone time around Lexa’s duties as Commander. She thought things would be like they were, only _more_. 

Not this fucking… _limbo_ _state_ where she isn’t sure what the hell they are to one another.

It feels like a wedge has been purposefully driven between them by Lexa and Clarke can’t endure it any longer. 

So she closes in until she’s almost toe-to-toe with Lexa. 

Lexa, whose neutral facade doesn’t slip except for the slight tightening of her jaw. She gives no quarter. Calm, as though there’s an inevitability to this and she’s prepared for it like any other tactical skirmish. Exhibiting near-monolithic patience in the face of Clarke’s renewed agitation, which just ratchets it up further. 

Because she doesn’t understand how Lexa can bear to be so close and remain so outwardly unaffected. How Lexa can act like this when Clarke can’t stop thinking about that afternoon. Barely able to function every time she sees Lexa in a meeting or they pass each other in one of the tower’s blustery hallways, trailed by their respective retinues of bodyguards.  

She can’t even look at Lexa across a room without her mind flashing back to how they touched each other, hurried and trembling because they thought they might never get another chance. Can’t forget the noise Lexa made when she came with Clarke’s mouth on her for the first time. Or the second. And she’s pretty sure the way Lexa kissed her afterward, still quivering from her orgasm, whimpering at the taste of herself on Clarke’s tongue, is going to be seared into her brain forever. 

But she’s starting to believe it was all a fever dream, like she imagined the whole damn thing. Because it’s a struggle to reconcile that Lexa with the one who stands in front of her now.  

“Was there’s something you wished to say, Clarke?” One eyebrow flexes. Lexa’s chin tilts up. “Or do you intend to glare at me indefinitely?” 

The unexpected sass throws Clarke. 

The tirade she’d been working up to—rehearsing the arguments in her head as she prowled her bedroom this morning after a fitful night of sleep—eludes her at the moment. 

She gapes for a second then snaps her jaw shut. Doesn’t know whether she wants to punch Lexa or kiss her. Maybe both. 

“You want me to spell it out? Fine.” She pokes Lexa in the sternum, pleased when Lexa’s eyes widen and she takes a half-step back. Clarke follows, not allowing her the luxury of space. “I’m pissed at you for shutting me out. I’m angry you won’t discuss your reasons why. But most of all, I’m furious that we slept together and now you won’t give me the time of day. I mean, what the fuck am I supposed to think, Lexa?” 

Lexa flinches as though stung, the tips of her little ears tinge pink and Clarke kind of hates herself that she finds it cute, because she needs to hold on to her outrage. There’s no way she’s letting Lexa off the hook for this. 

Blue eyes bore into green. 

“Do you even want me here?” 

She hears the short, sharp breath Lexa pulls in. “Of course I do, Clarke.” 

They’re the softest words Lexa has uttered since Clarke burst into the throne room, the softest of all being Clarke’s name. 

“So talk to me. Tell me why you’re treating me like I’m some conquest you’d sooner forget about. I swear, I’m _this_ close to packing up and going back to Arkadia, kill order or not.” 

Lexa’s eyes are two deep wells of regret, as soft as they are solemn. “You aren’t a conquest. That couldn’t be further from the truth.” 

Her gaze tracks over Clarke’s features slowly and Lexa lifts a hand, as though she means to touch, before it falls back to her side. 

“I never meant to hurt you. I believed I was doing the right thing, keeping you safe. As Commander, I can’t be seen to show favouritism. If the nature of our bond became common knowledge, it would make you a target.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m already a target,” Clarke says, irritably. “Titus tried to kill me, remember?” 

They share a look and Clarke feels a wriggle of remorse for not engaging her brain before her mouth, the barb uncalled for. Everything about that botched assassination is a sore point, not least the bullet wound Lexa’s still recovering from. 

Lexa breaks the eye contact, glancing downwards. Her jaw works and it’s a long moment before she admits, “I can’t lose anyone else. I can’t lose you.” 

“Lexa,” Clarke sighs. Her tone gentles. “If you keep pushing me away you’re going to lose me anyway.” 

A tiny nod, sad and serious. 

The pout on Lexa’s lips makes Clarke sigh again. She hooks a finger under the strap of Lexa’s pauldron to pull her closer, living for Lexa’s shaky exhale as their hips bump together and her hands go tentatively to Clarke’s waist. Their eyes lock and hold, something electric passing between them. 

“Listen to me.” 

Clarke tugs on the strap for emphasis, making sure she has Lexa’s full attention. Her other palm slips under the fur-trimmed collar of Lexa’s coat to curve around her neck. She has to take a second just to enjoy the feel of Lexa beneath her fingertips after going so long without it. 

“I know you’re used to being in charge, but you don’t get to make executive decisions about what’s best for us, okay?” She waits for another shallow rise and fall of Lexa’s chin before continuing. “If we’re going to be together, this has to be an equal partnership. That means trust and honesty and communication. Do you think you can give me that?” 

“I intend to try.” 

The corner of Clarke’s mouth lifts. “I guess Rome wasn’t built in a day.” The slight scrunch of Lexa’s brow at the unfamiliar idiom makes Clarke’s smile widen a fraction. “It’s a start. We’ll get there eventually.” 

Lexa’s eyes dip to Clarke’s mouth. “What else is included in the terms of this partnership?” 

“Well…” Clarke pretends to ponder the question and she leans into Lexa’s body, stomach to stomach, chest to chest, revelling in the way Lexa clutches her tighter. “A little romance wouldn’t go amiss. Dinner. Watching the stars. Holding hands.” She drops her voice to a lower register, “Steamy make outs on your bed.” 

A minuscule smirk appears and Clarke feels inexorably drawn to it. Her fingers tangle in the shorter hairs at Lexa’s nape, pulling her in, and dark lashes flutter so prettily as Lexa inches closer, head tilted to one side. 

They meet in the middle, lips parting on a grateful sigh, moving together with a gentle kind of hunger that sends sparks racing across Clarke’s skin. 

Part of her is still mad that Lexa denied her this under a stupidly noble misapprehension. But mostly she’s just relieved and happy, and all the soft little sounds Lexa makes while they kiss go a long way to atone for it, especially that tiny gasp when Clarke licks into her. Another noise to add to Clarke’s personal library of favourites. 

The kiss turns heated as it goes on. Clarke’s hands find their way to Lexa’s jaw, guiding them into deeper, heavier contact. Before long they’re full-on making out and there’s something so transgressive about the usually buttoned-up Commander grabbing at Clarke’s ass within the sanctified walls of this throne room. And Clarke’s all for it, but she’s also aware that Lexa’s supposed to be presiding over citizens’ disputes right about now—she can hear the impatient murmurs and shuffling of feet outside the chamber. 

“Lexa,” Clarke sighs, only half-heartedly trying to evade the slant of Lexa’s mouth. Losing herself for another few seconds when Lexa changes the angle. She tries again. “Lexa.” 

Lips stray across Clarke’s jaw instead and she tips her chin up without conscious intent, all the invitation Lexa needs to scatter hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat. 

“ _Lexa_.”

It takes every bit of restraint Clarke has to push at Lexa’s shoulders, a light shove that causes her to break away at last. But, God, the expression on Lexa’s face makes Clarke wish she hadn’t, because it’s going to haunt her for the rest of the day.

That gorgeous mouth, swollen and wet. Those eyes, pupils huge and surrounded by a thin ring of green. Lexa: the living, heavy-breathing embodiment of thirst.

With a groan, Clarke drops her forehead briefly against Lexa’s pauldron. “I really, _really_ hate to be the one to say this but… we need to stop. If we don’t, I can’t be held responsible for mounting you on your throne.” 

Lexa looks like she doesn’t know whether Clarke’s exaggerating or not. Honestly, Clarke isn’t sure either but they probably shouldn’t tempt fate when the citizens of Polis are clamouring to be heard beyond those double doors. Besides which, defiling Heda’s literal seat of power? Likely a capital offense. 

“Another time, perhaps.” 

That smirk is back on Lexa’s lips, a sly tilt to it this time, and heat floods Clarke’s stomach. 

“Oh, you are trouble, Commander,” she drawls. 

Lexa’s smile burrows a little deeper into her cheeks and Clarke just wants to reel her in again and taste the curve of it. So she does for a few blissful moments and it’s perfect. 

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt me at [femininenachos](https://femininenachos.tumblr.com)


End file.
